


Hamilton & Laurens

by lilyinthesky



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Being an Asshole, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Blow Jobs, Bottom John Laurens, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, Cheating, Clothed Sex, Dom/sub, Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is a disaster really, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gay John Laurens, Hand Jobs, Historical Accuracy, Human Disaster Aaron Burr, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Hurt/Comfort, I legit did so much research, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, John Needs A Hug, M/M, POV Alternating, Protective Alexander Hamilton, Protective John Laurens, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Suicidal Thoughts, Thomas Jefferson Being an Asshole, Top Alexander Hamilton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21557998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyinthesky/pseuds/lilyinthesky
Summary: If the forty-six songs depicting the life of Alexander Hamilton focused on his HISTORICALLY CONFIRMED relationship with John Laurens, the story would go a lot like this.Basically, I ship Lams so much that I rewrote the entire musical to accommodate their romance and put it into story form. You're welcome :D*NOTE: This is not historical fiction. Rather, this is fanfiction based off of a musical that is based off of true historical events. So naturally, even though I did SO MUCH research for this book, there will be some (or several) historical inaccuracies when it comes to minor details. Some done on purpose, some by accident. Some chapters will contain notes at the end that offer further historical explanations.Lastly, please do not Burn me for things I get wrong. Seeing as how I worked Nonstop on this story without a Right Hand Man, just read this and That Would Be Enough. I promise, this story will leave you Helpless and dying to know What Comes Next. Above all, I hope that you will be Satisfied :).
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 42
Kudos: 153





	1. Alexander Hamilton

How does a bastard orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence impoverished in squalor, grow up to be a hero and a scholar?

 _....By working really fucking hard_ , Alexander thought, as he poured over his studies the night before he set off for New York. He had been awake for over seventy-two hours, he was fairly certain, and shut up in his room for even longer. He could hardly remember what the warmth of sunlight on his skin felt like. But if he earned this scholarship, he thought, the severe loss of Vitamin D would be worth it.

Annoyingly, he felt his heavy eyelids begin to droop. He smacked his own face, which was already red and sore from having done so multiple times. Stay awake. He commanded himself. You are nowhere near done. There's still a million things you haven't—

"Hamilton, what the hell are you doing?"

Alexander jumped at the voice, cursing when he knocked his head against the low ceiling. He looked to see his friend and mentor William Livingston leaning in the doorway, his mouth agape as he took in the mess that was Alexander and his desk.

"What does it look like, Livingston?" said Alexander, rubbing his head in agitation. "I am departing for King's College tomorrow. If I turn in this paper upon my entrance and it impresses the dean, my education will be paid for in full."

Livingston sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, an idiosyncrasy he seemed to develop only after having been Alexander Hamilton's roommate for a year. "For the last time," he muttered. "Your education is already being paid for. We are sending you there because we know you will excel. Your community has already collected the funds—"

But Alexander shook his head adamantly. He had been attending Elizabethtown Academy for the past year entirely thanks to the charity of his hometown. But no longer would he accept this. "And I have already told you, that's not going to happen. Not for King's. I am going to earn my way in with a scholarship, and whats more, I am going to graduate in two years."

"Christ, Hamilton." Livingston shook his head in disbelief, though he wasn't sure how anything about this extraordinary young man surprised him anymore. "Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you can do it, but...why?"

Alexander opened his mouth.

"On second thought, don't answer that," Livingston said quickly, but unfortunately not quick enough to be spared a response.

"The revolution, Livingston!" The word revolution alone seemed to brighten his tired eyes, the clever and ambitious glint of a man with his entire future laid out before him overtaking his prior exhaustion.

Oh boy, there's no stopping him now. Livingston thought with regret.

"The revolution. Just think of the things I could accomplish! All my life I've been told I speak well and write phenomenally, but the battlefield....imagine the possibilities! The sooner I finish school, the sooner I can join in the movement. I could be apart of the greatest rebellion in history, as we abolish King George and his supporters, separate ourselves from Britain's tyranny for good, and become our own country united by our values of independence and freedom!"

Livingston winced at the ferocity behind his friend's words. He himself was for the revolution as much as the next intelligent man, but no man's objection to Britain's rule could remotely compare to that of Alexander Hamilton, who was so radical in some of his views that he frightened Livingston at times. And to top it all off, the young man was on his way to New York City, where— in some areas— it was considered blasphemy to speak out against King George.

"I have to finish in two years, Livingston," Alexander continued, returning his quill to his paper. "I will accept nothing else. If Aaron Burr can do it, then so can I."

"Who is this Aaron Burr you keep mentioning?" Livingston questioned, as this wasn't the first time Alexander had tossed this man's name out when voicing his own plan's for the future.

"Someone who did exactly what I want to do," Alexander responded without looking up. "I heard his name at Princeton." He had returned to writing vehemently, but Livingston could not miss how that last sentence seemed to have a tinge of bitterness behind it.

It was then that he noticed, among the various scattered papers on his friend's desk, the rejection letter. "So...I'm guessing King's College wasn't your first choice, then," he remarked, innocently.

Alexander did not have to ask what he meant. He sighed wistfully as he turned to face his freind. "I spoke with the board of trustees at Princeton about my two-year plan. Apparently, they didn't think I was.....capable."

Livingston was taken aback. "You, not capable? Preposterous!"

"Very kind, my dear friend, but they didn't seem to feel so. They told me the last person who completed their curriculum in two years was a young man named Aaron Burr, about my age. But he was a prodigy who, according to the bursar, had 'more than twice my skill and maturity'."

"....Preposterous," Livingston repeated, shaking his head in honest disbelief. "And you proved him wrong, I hope?"

"Er...I may have punched him, actually," replied Alexander, sheepishly.

Livingston sighed. So, you proved him right, he wanted to point out; however, his friend had already returned to his work. The conversation was clearly over in his mind.

"But no matter," the young man waved it off. "I will accomplish my goals at King's instead, and I will do so with as much rapidity as my exertions will enable me. Now, I assume my ship is in the harbor already?"

"Y-yes. It departs at dawn. That is," he checked his watch. "In a few hours....Christ, are you ever going to sleep?"

"I will sleep when I'm dead!" Alexander exclaimed, standing up out of his chair. He had to grasp the edge of his desk to keep from falling over. "As long as great minds continue to resist British tyranny, there will always be words to be written! Ideas to be brought forth and established! Proclamations to be—"

"Right, how about you cut the theatrics for five seconds and give your body a rest," Livingston insisted, guiding the exhausted boy to his bed. "You already have..." he picked up the stack of handwritten pages from Alexander's desk and counted them. "Twenty-six pages of writing here."

"Not enough," he mumbled back, his voice muffled by the pillow his face had already fallen into.

"Well you can finish it on your journey then, can you not? It is a week long by ship, after all—" but by then, he was talking to dead air and a snoring adolescent.

Livingston observed his friend with sadness as he settled into his own bed, knowing that he'd be gone by the time he woke. Though he'd had many mixed feelings about Alexander Hamilton when he first met him— of his radical ideals and pedantic nature— the ambitious young lad had really grown on him over the past year. Now he was leaving, off to accomplish bigger and better things, and who knew if he would ever see him again?

But as Livingston put out the candles and settled under his bed sheets, his dejection reverted to contentment at a sudden realization. Although he may never meet Alexander again after this day, he had no doubt in this world that he would hear his name again. Because the young man would accomplish everything he wanted to and more, of that Livingston was more sure than anything. And when he did, there would not be a soul in the future of their nation who didn't know the name Alexander Hamilton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William Livingston was a revolutionary whom Alexander lived with while he studied in New Jersey, prior to his enrollment at King's College.


	2. Aaron Burr, Sir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The asterisks refer to corresponding footnotes which can be found at the end of the chapter.

** 1776, New York City **

Alexander met the man who would ruin his life mere hours before he met the man who would inevitably shoot him.

It was early fall, and young bright minds from all over were settling into their new spaces at King's College. All the normal students were either spending the day unpacking, or relaxing before their first day of classes.

Alexander Hamilton, of course, was not one of them. He was hard at work, as always. Until a voice, warm and sudden like electricity, jolted him out of concentration.

"So where're you from?"

The voice startled Alexander, who had been writing intently at his new desk, but he didn't let it show. He casually directed his attention behind him, where the stranger he assumed to be his roommate stood with impressive posture and an amused expression that complimented his chiseled face nicely. His chestnut hair, almost as long as Alexander's own, was tied back tautly so it hung over the collar of his shabby black coat. 

"What makes you think I'm not from here?" Alexander asked, his expression perfectly blank in the face of this unknown person. With the revolutionary spirit in the colonies growing stronger each day, and the tension between loyalists and patriots thickening, one hardly knew whom they could trust anymore.

The young man shrugged and motioned to the untouched luggage on Alexander's bed. "You haven't even unpacked and you're already working."

Alexander raised an eyebrow. "Yes. And?"

"....You look like a man on a mission, someone who has had to sweat and bleed his way to the top, rather than someone who was, as they say, 'born with a silver spoon in his mouth'."

"So?"

"So there's no way you're from New York, the original colony of silver spoon-suckers."

Alexander chuckled, his composure breaking at last. He couldn't possibly not appreciate such a bold shot at northern aristocrats; said with that bold, electric voice. Whatever this man's views on current politics, it was unlikely that he was a loyalist.

His roommate grinned at his reaction, approaching him with an outstretched hand. "I'm John Laurens. South Carolina. You?"

"Alexander Hamilton," he responded, hesitating for a moment before stating his birthplace. Most colonists couldn't locate it on a map, anyway. "Nevis."

Laurens let out a low whistle. "Boy, you're a long way from home, aren't you?"

"You've actually heard of it, then? That's a first."

Laurens laughed lightly, but it came out more as a sigh. "Trust me, I'm not proud of it, but you'd be able to name all of the British West Indies too if your parents sent you to England for school as a child."

It was Alexander's turn to whistle. "Wow. That's rough."

"You're telling me. Try living in fear that you'd be put to death for heresy if you didn't do your thirty 'Hail King Georges' every night before bedtime."

Alexander laughed much louder this time. Yeah, this guy was definitely no loyalist. But that left the question....was he a patriot?

"So what are you working on there, anyway?" Laurens' curious blue eyes had wandered to Alexander's stack of papers almost before he could notice. 

He almost adjusted his arms to hide the words before remembering that he didn't give a shit. "Oh, just a short response to some pamphlets I've seen attacking the proposed actions of the First Continental Congress— you know, the twelve delegates that met in Philadelphia to discuss—"

"Yes, yes, I've been keeping up with The Journal*," said Laurens, his expression curious as he took in a portion of Hamilton's writings. "Go on."

"Well, I'm nowhere near done yet, but basically I'm defending their proposal to boycott British goods in response to King George's attempts to, ah, 'maintain order'...." Alexander knew he'd better stop himself there, lest he devolved from simple explanation and into complete fulmination. John Laurens probably didn't want to hear his rants.

Except, from the way his face lit up, it seemed as though he did. At least, he seemed to have quite a bit to say on the subject as well. 

"Maintain order," Laurens scoffed. "More like tax us into oblivion! And don't forget to mention George's intent to thrust his filthy claws into the imperial system. I mean, he gets all pissy with France and suddenly we can't trade with them?"

"Oh, I assure you I have six pages on that subject alone," Alexander replied, his own excitement growing as he rifled through his finished papers. It was rare that he met someone who hated Great Britain as much as he did, and who was willing to talk about it as much as he was.

Laurens took the stack from him and counted the papers. "Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five pages? And you said this was a short response?"

"I'm not finished yet," Alexander said sheepishly.

Laurens stared at him, his eyes a mixture of admiration and amusement, before he began reading the excerpt he held. It was not long before all humor was gone from his eyes, leaving behind only hard surprise and respect. "This....God, this is fantastic. How long did this take you?"

"Well, I wrote most of it on my travel from Jersey, as soon as I finished my entry paper," said Alexander. "But I think I need to edit it. See, on my way from the harbor I picked up another pamphlet that I think I want to borrow some excerpts from. Have you read Thomas Paine's—"

"Common Sense?" Laurens finished, pulling a crumpled copy of the pamphlet out of his bag. "Yes, and I admired the unwavering way he states his points....though I do believe his definition of government leaves a lot to be desired."**

Alexander smiled wide. That had been his exact thought when he had read it. "You know something Laurens? I think you and I are going to get along just fine."

Laurens smiled back. "I agree. In fact, if you're willing to take a break from your work, we should get a drink. I'd like you to come meet some very good friends of mine."

*********************

By the time the newly acquainted friends reached the bar down the street from the college, their conversation had evolved from politics to their own personal goals.

"So you want to join the war as well?" said Alexander, delighted to have found that he had so much in common with this electric young man. There was something about him— a feeling he just couldn't shake— that was so enrapturing.

Laurens nodded, lifting his head slightly. His striking blue eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of the bar as his grin widened. Just the thought of the war seemed to give him life. "Definitely. I may be here studying law at my father's command," he paused only to grit his teeth bitterly. "But really I'm just biding my time. Our nation has already declared its independence; a declaration of war should follow in the next year or two at least! Pretty soon the army recruiters will be sopping by New York, and I swear I will be first in line to enlist when they do!"

Alexander laughed at the spirit in his voice. Yes, John Laurens was definitely his kind of man. "Not if I beat you there first!"

They shared a laugh as Laurens slapped some bills on the counter for a couple of drinks. "But I'll have no compunction dropping out of college early for the war. What about you, Alexander? You really plan on finishing your general education in two years?"

"Aaron Burr did it," Alexander muttered reflexively. God, how he admired that man.

He half expected Laurens to ask for explanation, but the he simply nodded in understanding. "Ah, yes. The prodigy of Princeton College."

"So you've heard of him?"

"Oh, I'm sure every aspiring student around here knows his name," Laurens chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "The man went to college at thirteen and joined the army before we even declared our independence! That's true dedication right there. Burr is an icon for the revolution if I've ever heard of one." 

There was high admiration in Laurens' voice, and though Alexander agreed with him entirely, he couldn't help but feel slightly jealous. When was he going to accomplish something that made people speak of him in such high regard? How could he get to be an "icon for the revolution"?

By working really fucking hard, Alexander reminded himself.

"They should be here any moment," Laurens remarked, glancing towards the door. "My friends, I mean. They're always a bit late...."

"Sorry, but were you two talking about Aaron Burr a moment ago?" said a voice suddenly, causing both Alexander and Laurens to turn their heads. A young blond man sat a couple seats away, eyeing them curiously.

"Yeah," Alexander responded, sitting up a little taller. "We were." Was this man one of those dirty Brit-supporters?

"Why?" asked Laurens, mirroring his defensive posture. "You got a problem?"

The stranger was clearly intimidated. "N-nothing! Uh, I mean, no. It's just....well he's in town, if you didn't know. And whats more....I think that's him over there." He pointed at a darkened corner of the bar where someone sat hunched over a lone table, holding a drink in one hand and scrawling passionately with the other, so absorbed in his work that he seemed to exist in another world entirely.

Alexander's heart skipped three beats from excitement. Could it really be....?

"Hang on, you're not telling me that loner over there is the Aaron Burr?" Laurens challenged the stranger, observing the quiet guy at the table several feet away. "I don't believe it."

He shrugged innocently. "Hey, I'm not saying I'm certain! I just thought I heard someone greet him earlier. You can always go ask—"

But Alexander, a step ahead of them both, was already walking towards the far side of the bar. 

A part of him agreed with Laurens; that the short, lonely man they were looking at couldn't possibly be the revolutionary icon they had just been talking about. Alexander had always imagined first meeting his hero on a street corner somewhere, where he'd be screaming about the revolution with a throng of fellow rebels. Or maybe on the front line in battle, crying out curses against King George as they charged the opposing army. When he had imagined Aaron Burr, he had imagined someone....well, a bit more like himself.

But then again, there was something about the focus and intensity with which this man wrote that led him to believe it couldn't be anyone but Aaron Burr. There was only one way to find out for sure.

"Alexander! Alex— Hamilton." Laurens grabbed his arm. "What are you doing? I highly doubt that's Aaron Burr, but even if it is—"

"Laurens, this man is my hero," Alexander insisted, ignoring his own frantic pulse underneath Laurens' tight grasp. "If this is my one shot to meet him face-to-face, I'm not throwing it away. I have to see if it's him."

Laurens hesitated for a moment before nodding and releasing him.

Alexander proceeded towards the man who may or may not have been Burr. He observed the way he clutched his quill tightly in his left hand, scratching it across the parchment indefatigably, as he stared his own writing down unblinking.

It had to be him. It had to be.

As he neared the man, Alexander panicked over what to say. A million possibilities raced through his mind. He wanted the first words out of his mouth to be clever and witty, bold and audacious, poised and confident....

"Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?"

Damn. He cringed at his own eager, childlike tone, but it was too late now. The man paused his quill mid-sentence and looked up. His wide, dark eyes mirrored Alexander's own, weighed down with bags from lack of sleep. His dark hair was cut military style and he wore the stoic face of a soldier. "That depends, who's asking?"

Alexander's heart pounded a million miles a minute. He was shaking and sweating with excitement, and suddenly no longer cared about composure. This was him! "Oh well sure, sir! I'm Alexander Hamilton, I'm at your service, sir. I have been looking for you—"

"I'm getting nervous," Burr grunted back sarcastically, closing up his ink. He rolled his parchment closed as well and stood up, clearly having taken this disturbance as a signal to leave.

"Sir!" Alexander stopped him, placing a hand on his shoulder boldly. He could almost feel Laurens cringing at him from across the room, but he didn't care. He tried again. "I heard your name at Princeton. I was seeking an accelerated course of study when I got....uh, a bit out of sorts with a buddy of yours— I may have punched him— it's a blur, sir. He handles the financials?"

Burr, who had begun walking away again, stopped in his tracks. He did a three-sixty just to face Hamilton with a wide-eyed, disbelieving stare. "You punched the bursar?"

Aha. Now he had him. Before Alexander knew it, he was rambling again."....Yes. I wanted to do what you did: graduate in two years and join the revolution! He looked at me like I was stupid— I'm not stupid." Burr looked like he strongly doubted that last statement, but Alexander continued. "So how did you do it? How did you graduate so fast?"

"It was my parents' dying wish," Burr stated curtly. "They wanted to see me graduate before they passed."***

Now, any normal person probably would've had the good sense and tact to shut the hell up when a stranger dropped the dead-parents bomb in conversation. But Alexander, obviously, was no normal person.

"You're an orphan!" He exclaimed, causing most people in the vicinity to look their way. "Of course! I'm an orphan. God, we have so much in common, I knew we would! I'll bet that's why you're joining the war too, huh? A chance to finally prove to the world that we're worth so much more than anyone bargained for!"

Burr stared at him. He seemed extremely aware of the number of eyes on them at the moment, and—Alexander was startled to notice—appeared uncomfortable in the spotlight. Though he did set down his satchel at the bar, as if suddenly not so intent on leaving. "Listen....Alexander, was it? Can I call you Alexander?"

"Of course, sir—"

"Then please stop calling me 'sir'."

"Right....sorry sir. I mean—"

Burr sighed and grabbed a stool. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Filled with glee, Alexander glanced at Laurens. His new friend, now accompanied by two other men, waved him on in encouragement. "That would be nice."

Burr called out for two whiskeys and passed one to Alexander, but the eager young scholar was more thirsty for Aaron Burr's life story than he was for alcohol. He played with the buttons on his coat for a few while Burr drank in silence.

At the risk of becoming annoying, if he hadn't already, Alexander started talking again. "Burr, if you'll excuse my enthusiasm, I've just heard so many great things about you. I hear you've already enlisted for the Continental Army? I imagine your opinions on the war are strong. You must be eager to fight, as I am."

Still, Burr was silent. Not even a grunt in response.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alexander saw Laurens and his two acquaintances watching the exchange (or rather, Alexander's attempt at one) with curiosity.

A bit frustrated, Alexander tried yet again to engage the man. "You say your parents died before you finished college. Would you say that strengthened your fighting spirit? I know you're ambitious, but you must tell me how you have come this far at such a young age? Already out of college and advancing in your military career, and at no older than I am? How did you—"

"You ask a lot of questions," Burr said, shutting Alexander up immediately. "And I'm flattered. But while we're talking, let me offer you some free advice." He didn't wait for a response before placing a firm hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye, and giving him exactly two words:

"Talk less."

Alexander's eager expression fell. His heart crumpled. No, there was no way he had heard right. "What?"

"Smile more." He motioned to the people around them, who had since directed their attention back to their own business. "You want to know how I got this far? Put up a wall. It's as simple as avoiding confrontation. No need to let them know what you're against or what you're for. You'll stay out of trouble that way."

Alexander laughed nervously. Burr had to be joking. There was no way this man— his hero—this revolutionary icon whom he had idolized for so long, was advising him to move up by talking less. "You can't be serious."

"You want to get ahead." He said it as a statement, not a question. The answer was quite clear.

"Yes."

"Then heed my warning: Keep your head down and your ideas to yourself. Only death can come of fools who run their mouths off."

Alexander was speechless, a phenomenon which happened rarely. He felt as if he had been slapped in the face by the man he admired most. He may as well have been.

Luckily, the newly created tension was broken by Laurens and his two buddies, arriving to the conversation just in time. "Aaaay!" said Laurens, holding out the hand that wasn't holding his third brew. "So you're really Aaron Burr, then? I'm John Laurens, huge admirer! Excited to bash some redcoats in the upcoming war, as I'm sure you are as well!"

Burr shook his hand reluctantly, unable to help noticing the two men behind him who wanted to introduce themselves well. He was likely starting to wish that he had left the bar five minutes ago.

Laurens' first friend was a tall, lanky man with a long face and wild eyes. He wore his hair high up in a style that was neither British nor American. "Bonjour, mon ami," he purred in a thick French accent. "Je m'appelle Lafayette. I have heard many things of your greatness. I came all the way from France, you see, to help you Americans CRUSH BRITAIN— I mean, uh....how you say....win the war."

His French accent was thick, but seemed to be more for show than anything. Otherwise, his English was perfect.

Laurens' second friend, the largest man in the entire bar, introduced himself last. "Hercules Mulligan," he boomed, holding out a stiff but eager hand. "My friends and I are truly honored to meet you."

"And guys, this is Alexander Hamilton," Laurens added to his friends, urging them to shake Alexander's hand as well. "Yet another strong addition to our brilliant team of rebels!" They all cheered, seeming oblivious to Burr's disapproving looks.

Alexander did not have the heart to burst their bubbles by letting them know Burr's true position. "To the revolution!" he joined them instead, touching their glasses with his.

"Well, Burr?" Mulligan nudged the stoic man. "We hear you're well-spoken? Give us some words!"

Laurens and Lafayette muttered in agreement, and only then did the three fall silent as they stared at Aaron Burr expectantly.

Burr sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose in the manner of an adult who was dealing with several rowdy children. "If you all would just lower your voices...."

The men shared confused looks. This was clearly not what they had expected.

"Look," Burr took a step back. "You all seem very intelligent. You're loud, outspoken. You think that screaming out your ideas will get you far in life. And you know what? Good luck with that. But that's not for me."

Lafayette scoffed loudly. As if he thought, like Alexander had before, that Burr was joking. "Sorry, I'd like to think my English is good, but....what?"

Laurens was puzzled as well. "Wait a sec, don't you protest against the king, though?"

"I base my choices off what I believe I can best provide for the prosperous future of these colonies." Burr rattled off in a monotone.

"....Okay," Mulligan prompted. "But you do oppose British rule?"

"I would say I don't always agree with certain policies that—"

"Burr, you're evading the question," Laurens snapped. "Straight answer: Are you a loyalist or a patriot?"

"I am not a loyalist," Burr said, firmly. "....Nor do I consider myself a patriot."

"But-but you joined the army!" Laurens sputtered. "You're literally fighting in the war! Why not just say you're for it?" He looked at Alexander like, Can you believe this guy? 

Alexander said nothing. In fact, he had been strangely silent this entire time. He just stared at Burr through slightly narrowed eyes, as if not entirely sure he was there. 

"Yes I am fighting, and I hope that we win," Burr admitted. "But that doesn't mean I'm ever going to put a name to my political position. No party owns me, loyalist or patriot."

Lafayette muttered a French word that couldn't have been anything but an insult.

"Well....that's disappointing," Mulligan scorned. "And pathetic."

Laurens shook his head and opened his mouth to rant further. But he was cut off by Alexander, who chose that exact moment to say what had been on his mind since Burr had first uttered the words Talk less.

"If you stand for nothing, Burr, what'll you fall for?"****

Laurens, Lafayette, and Mulligan all turned to look at him in comical synchronization, aghast at his nerve.

Burr looked surprised as well, then offended, and at last, livid with anger. He glared up at Alexander—the slight difference in height doing nothing to diminish his smoldering gaze— and the latter glared back with equal distaste.

Is this it? Alexander couldn't help but think, as a brand new emotion boiled up inside his blood. I finally meet the man I've admired for months, expecting to become his best friend, and instead become his worst enemy?

The question was answered when Burr finally grabbed his satchel from the bar, turned on his heel and stalked out the doors without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Journal could refer to a variety of underground newspapers that were published throughout the inception of the revolution— probably the New York Journal in this case— which kept up with the latest new of the rebellion, as well as the proceedings of the First Continental Congress. 
> 
> **Thomas Paine described the government as a necessary evil which should provide the bare minimum for the people. A view which Hamilton probably disagreed with, as he always argued for a "strong central democracy".
> 
> ***I hope it didn't bother you guys too much that I altered the original song lyrics a lot here, but I wanted it to seem less rhyme-y and more conversational. I still kept what I thought to be the best parts of the song. I hope it all worked :)
> 
> ****Fun fact: The actual quote from the actual Alexander Hamilton goes: "A man who stands for nothing falls for anything." I had thought about putting that version in this book instead, but decided that the song version is more iconic at this point.


	3. My Shot

John* could hardly believe what had just happened, but even more surprising was how it seemed to have affected Hamilton. His new friend, who had been so animated and loquacious when they had first arrived to the bar, now sat slouched over in a dejected posture.

"Well.... _that_ was a disappointment," Hercules Mulligan grunted as he slammed down some money for another round of drinks.

"Agreed," Lafayette spat. "I always thought Burr was the embodiment of a true patriot! Turns out, he is but a _putain lâche!"**_

"No idea what that means," John muttered. "But I'm sure it's true." He turned to Hamilton, who was tracing the rim of his shot glass absentmindedly. "Hey. Are you okay?"

No response. Just the slight squeaking sound of his thumb as it rounded the glass. His eyes were glazed over; he looked to be contemplating an unsettling notion.

John frowned. "Come on, Hamilton. We're all a little upset that Burr's not what we thought he'd be, but you can't let it get to you. You alone....you're _twice_ the revolutionary he'd ever—"

"What if he's right?"

Mulligan gasped. Lafayette scoffed.

John blinked in shock. "What?"

Hamilton kept his gaze downward. "Aaron Burr is _literally_ a genius. What if he knows what he's talking about better than we do? What if....what if it really _is_ better just to lay low during this whole thing, to not let people know what you stand for?"

From the tone of his voice, John could tell this was probably the first time Hamilton had questioned himself in his entire life. And he had to admit, this was a new side of the young man that he didn't like. "You said it yourself, Hamilton: A man who stands for nothing falls for anything. _We_ know where we stand. _You_ know where you stand: your writings are beyond impressive! You're not really going to let that cowardly scum Burr plant doubts in your mind now, are you?"

Hamilton lowered his head once more, this time in shame. He was obviously more let down by Burr's dismissiveness than any of them. John shared a concerned look with his friends.

"Hey," Mulligan tried, nudging Hamilton's shoulder gently. "Laurens tells us that you're writing a paper of some sort? What's that about?"

At the mention of his work, John noticed Hamilton's head lift slightly, a tiny smile playing on the corners of his thin lips. "Just a short essay on King George's general incompetence, and the importance of following through with the proposed actions of the Continental Congress—"

"Pfft, _'short',_ " John rolled his eyes. "What was it again, thirty pages?"

"Thirty-five," Hamilton corrected.

Lafayette and Mulligan were appropriately astonished, and John could see some of the passion return to Hamilton's eyes as they commended him.

"Incredible!" exclaimed Lafayette. "And here I thought Burr was the biggest revolutionary America had to offer."

Hamilton blushed slightly. "I wouldn't make that comparison yet. I mean, Burr's done _so much._ Meanwhile, there's still a million things I haven't—"

"Forget about Burr," Mulligan waved off his comment. "He may be book smart, but Laurens tells us that you've got brains _and_ nerve— more than anyone else he's ever met. And that's what it takes to make it to the top!"

"He really said that?" Hamilton asked, raising an eyebrow at John.

It was John's turn to blush. He really wished that Mulligan hadn't told him that, because yes, it was true. As soon as his friends had arrived after Hamilton had gone to approach Burr, John had just short of fangirled to them about the exciting young immigrant that was his new roommate.

"Well it's true." John shrugged, playing it off casually. "You've got skill and passion; it's hard _not_ to admire."

"And just you wait, Hamilton," Mulligan added. "In a few years' time, Burr will be working beneath you—beneath all of us— and ruing the day he rejected the opportunity to join the radical side!"

They all shared a laugh. Though the mere thought of the prodigy Aaron Burr ever working beneath _any_ of them was wishful to the point of being delusional, at least it seemed to cheer up Alexander.

"You guys are right," he said, gratefully. "I can't believe I ever began to doubt myself. Burr is _wrong_ , plain and simple. Nothing is to be gained from hiding your ideas in fear!" he stood up dramatically, downing his drink in one swift gulp.

John smiled. It was good to hear him speaking with such confidence again.

"Hear hear!" Lafayette seconded, about to down his own drink, but Hamilton swiped it out of his hand and drank it himself. He did the same to Mulligan's drink, then John's own, seeming completely oblivious to his own actions.

"Another round!" he shouted at the bartender.

"I'm not made of money," Mulligan grumbled, but put some more bills on the counter anyway.

The bartender put down four more shots, and Hamilton drank two of them in rapid succession.

John chuckled. "Slow down," he said, but Hamilton paid him no mind. He climbed on top of his barstool, maintaining his balance impressively for someone who had just downed six consecutive shots and had to be at least slightly drunk by now. "Everyone listen up!" he shouted.

The bar fell silent, and many lifted their heads. Including a group of well-dressed men at a table off to the right, who John would bet his right arm were loyalists.

"Uh, Hamilton? What are you doing?" John laughed nervously, but he was merely waved off.

"I just want you all to know that I stand firmly with the patriots!" The bold immigrant announced. He wasn't slurring yet, but John knew it was only a matter of time. "King George is a piece of shit, and we are going to defeat him mercilessly in the upcoming revolution!"

Most people rolled their eyes and returned to their business, but the loyalist group burst out in obnoxious laughter. "Revolution?" one of them cackled, directing his attention to John, Mulligan, and Lafayette. "How much has your friend had to drink, boys?"

"What do you mean?" Lafayette spat back defensively, before John could open his mouth and tell them, _Too much._

The rich young men shared a look. They were all blond with lily-white skin and watery blue eyes, and probably never had to fight to have anything in their entire lives. But it was the whitest, blondest, most spoiled-looking of them all who spoke. "Well," he said. "He was shouting about a revolution, wasn't he? He _must_ be smashed if he thinks that the King won't silence the rebels within the year."

His friends laughed, nodding along like sheep. "Yeah, all this talk of revolting is nothing more than a phase," one agreed. "This isn't going to last." He suddenly stepped forward, eyeing the three of them threateningly. "And anyone who thinks otherwise is obviously contributing to the problem, and needs to be silenced. Don't you think, boys?" They all grunted in agreement, some even cracking their knuckles.

It was the revolutionists' turn to share a look. John, who had originally intended to keep the peace, now wanted to smash these spoiled aristocrats to pieces. And by the look on his friends' faces, they seemed to be feeling the same way.

But before they could get into any kind of formation, Hamilton (who had stumbled off his stool at some point) shoved them all aside. "Wellll, ain't this a pretty little gaggle of goslings," he said, eyeing the loyalists like they were an amusing sight of some sort. "It's after dark, boys. Isn't it about your bedtimes?"

"Isn't it about time you _shut your gad damn mouth?"_ shot back the blondest of the blonds.

Alexander grinned. "Never!" he proclaimed. "Or I can make you a deal: I'll either _never_ shut up, or I'll shut up the day you stop coasting off of Daddy's inheritance and work for a living. Oh wait, that's about the same time frame."

Lafayette snorted. The rich boy's face burned with anger as he reached into his coat pocket.

John put a firm hand on Hamilton's shoulder. "What our friend here is _trying_ to say," he interjected, his want to avoid a fight returning at the flash of something silver beneath the leading aristocrat's coat. "Is that we respectfully disagree with the political views of the king and his loyalists. Nothing against you gentlemen, but—"

"You are all phony, undistinguished buttcracks for supporting King George, and can all go die in a hole," Hamilton interrupted, raising his middle finger high.

"That's it," the leader said, shoving the young immigrant with all his might. He was kept from hitting the floor only by Mulligan, who caught him under his arms.

"Outside," growled the blond, rolling up his sleeves. _"Now."_

His cohorts all cheered, seeming eager for a fight.

"Lezgo!" Hamilton slurred, moving to follow him only to immediately stumble over his own feet.

Mulligan, once again, saved his friend from face planting. "Hamilton, _no."_ He hissed.

"Hamilton, yes!" the drunk adolescent countered, rising up....

Then falling again. This time, Mulligan didn't catch him.

John directed his attention to the fuming loyalists. "Look. Obviously our friend is very drunk—"

"No excuse!" the leader shouted. "If he thinks he has so much nerve, he can put his pistol where his mouth is!"

"You think I'm afraid of some bleached snowflake?" Hamilton shouted back from the floor, though he made no effort to get up.

"What I'm _saying_ is," John insisted. "You cannot challenge a drunk man to a duel. It's unethical. It's... _improper."_

"So what?" the leader countered, but some of his friends began to look unsure, shifting uncomfortably in their boots. Being ethical and proper was their lifestyle, after all.

"Please," said John. He felt like an idiot begging, but he had just met Hamilton and didn't want to see him get murdered. He seemed so cool. "Couldn't we just forget this ever happened?"

Blondie narrowed his icy blue eyes, and John stared back into them. Behind him, Lafayette and Mulligan stood at his shoulders, ready to fight if he gave the word. Hopefully, there wouldn't be any need for that. John Laurens didn't normally object to a good brawl, especially when it came to spoiled aristocrats, but seven men with weapons did make him slightly nervous.

Finally, the blond took a reluctant step back. "Fine," he said. "But just this once."

John sighed in relief, and he heard his friends behind him do the same.

Hamilton clambered to his feet just as the group turned away from them. "Yeah, that's right!" he hiccuped before turning to face those who had been watching the confrontation silently for the past few minutes. "You heard it here first, folks! The revolution is coming, and when it does, I'll be the one charging into battle, screaming that I told you so!!"

Lafayette snickered at the drunken, stumbling mess that was their new friend. "Oh, if only there was some way to capture this moment and replay it over and over," he laughed.

John rolled his eyes at him and placed a gentle hand on Hamilton's shoulder. "Come on," he urged him. "Let's get out of here before you piss off anyone else."

He led him towards the exit, but had not taken more than a few steps before catching a snippet of conversation from the loyalists they had just avoided a fight with.

"....got to keep her tied up in the basement now," one of them was saying. "it's so obnoxious. I mean, what's the point of getting a slave for my birthday if it keeps acting up?"

"Oh, you've just got to beat her more," another responded. "Trust me, that's how I whipped mine into shape. It's the only way, really." They all laughed.

"Don't do it, Laurens," Mulligan warned, but John had already turned on his heel and didn't stop until he was inches from the face of the loyalist who had just spoken.

"What did you just say?"

The young man was clearly taken aback by John's sudden presence, but overcame it quickly. He chuckled. "Well, look who came back for—"

But he was cut off abruptly when John's fist struck him hard in the face.

******************************

An hour later, the four boys stumbled home in the thin light of the moon, bloody and exhausted, but satisfied nonetheless.

"That was brilliant!" Lafayette exclaimed, still pumped full of adrenaline from the brawl. "I especially enjoyed knocking out the one with the silver ring." As he said it, he held up said ring and kissed it before placing it back in his coat pocket. "Wonder how much it'll sell for."

"Did you see the look on the short one's face right before I went for him?" Mulligan laughed. "Priceless."

They continued on reminiscing about the fight, laughing loud enough to wake the whole street. Meanwhile, several feet behind them, Hamilton and Laurens trudged on a bit slower than their friends, the former leaning on the latter for support in his drunken state.

"That was really brave of you," Hamilton said in a low voice.

John snorted. "Which part? All I remember is being clobbered every time I turned around." It was true. As truculent as John could be sometimes, he had lost more fights than he had won in his life for the sole reason that multitasking was difficult for him. As embarrassing as it was to admit, he had a hard time playing offense and defense simultaneously.

"I meant the first punch," Hamilton said. "I mean, I kind of wish I had thrown it, but I admire you for getting there first."

"Oh," John blushed. "Thanks, I guess. I'm not easily provoked, you know. I pride myself in having control of my emotions. But the way they were talking about those people—their _slaves—"_ the very word tasted dirty in his mouth, "—was appalling. I couldn't stand it."

"You consider yourself an abolitionist?"***

John paused. It was one thing to be a patriot in this day and age, but being anti-slavery was a whole other level of radicalism. He could only hope that Hamilton felt the same way as he nodded.

He wasn't disappointed. "Me too," Hamilton whispered. "The very notion of slavery goes against everything I believe in. But I've never met—" he stopped abruptly, fell to his knees at the side of the road, and vomited in the dirt.

John turned away, waiting patiently as his friend emptied his stomach of the excessive amount of alcohol he had consumed that night.

When Hamilton was finished, he stood up and continued as if there had been no interruption. "I've never met anyone who feels as strongly about it as I do."

"Me neither," John admitted. "But I've always felt this way, even as a child. My father owned and traded many slaves, and I never understood it.**** Even more, I never understood why I seemed to be the only one who objected to it."

"Well, you're definitely not," Hamilton assured him, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "And though there are few of us who agree, you shouldn't be afraid to speak out."

"Oh believe me, I'm not," said John, smiling slightly. "In fact....and this probably sounds ridiculous, but if there's one thing I hope to accomplish through this revolution, it's freeing slaves. I hope that, when we start our own country, it can be one where all people are treated equally under the law." He blushed again, avoiding Hamilton's gaze. "I hope that doesn't sound too ambitious."

"Hey, who do you think you're talking to?" said Hamilton, and John could hear the smile in his voice. "I _invented_ sounding too ambitious."

John laughed. Hamilton did too, and John noticed that he liked the way Alexander always shut his eyes when he laughed, as if to allow full enjoyment of the experience. 

"Well, at least you have a chance at accomplishing your goals," John retorted when their laughter died down. "I've seen the way you write. You're _brilliant._ You can accomplish whatever you want, just as long as you don't completely screw up your life."

"Hey, I could say the same for you," Hamilton shrugged. "Though honestly, I'm more likely to screw things up then you are. You've seen how impulsive I am." He grew very solemn all of a sudden. "I doubt I'll ever achieve _everything_ I want."

"Oh, don't say that," said John. For some reason, though he had only known the young man for a few hours, he couldn't imagine Hamilton _not_ doing something great with his life. "For god's sake, you're....you're _you._ You can't say that you don't at least have a shot at being exactly what you want to be."

"Then you don't get to say it either," said Hamilton. "How about this: We _both_ have a shot in this life. We both have potential. The key is to not throw it away."

 _Why would we?_ John wanted to ask, but for some reason he knew not to. Drunk Hamilton, he decided, was the only form of Hamilton who would ever reveal his insecurities. Somewhere beneath his shroud of confidence existed a boy who had reason to fear self-sabotage, for whatever reason. He had to respect that.

"Okay," said John. "Then let's shake on it, right now." He held out his hand.

Hamilton halted, swaying slightly in place. "On...what?"

John smirked. "On not throwing away our shots."

They shook hands right there, in a darkened intersection lit only by the full moon that peered down on them from the heavens. In the moonlight, John observed that Alexander's skin appeared to glow, and the strands of hair that had loosened from his ponytail cast ghostly shadows over his face.

John had the strangest urge to reach over and push the strands aside, if only so he could see his eyes better. But he resisted it, of course, and they continued walking.

"So there, now it's a pact," John said. "No backing out, now you _have_ to do something great with your life."

"Pfft, I was going to anyway," Hamilton waved a hand, jokingly. "But now _you_ have to do something great with _your_ life."

"Damn," said John, sarcastically. "And here I was looking forward to a life with as little greatness as possible."

Hamilton cackled loudly, shutting his eyes and throwing back his head adorably. Unfortunately, this caused him to stumble over a bump in the road and almost fall head first onto a rock.

John caught him smoothly with one arm on his lower back. "Christ, be careful," he said.

"Laurens, I seem to be failing significantly at the act of walking tonight," Hamilton groaned, dramatically. "Could you carry me the rest of the way to our room, lest I fall on my head and die before I can achieve greatness?"

John couldn't tell if he was joking or not. He glanced around. Lafayette and Mulligan were nowhere to be found, probably having split off from them for their own homes a few turns back. They had already reached the steps of King's College, and the roads were completely deserted.

"Okay," said John. When Hamilton did not object, he picked up his friend bridal style. There weren't very many flights of stairs before their room anyway, and Hamilton was surprisingly light. So he carried him.

By the time they reached their room, the young man seemed to be asleep in his arms. John set him down gently on his bed before collapsing directly onto his own, fully clothed and still bloody from the fight. _I'll bathe in the morning,_ he thought.

Right before he drifted off, John heard a breathy whisper from the bed next to his. "G'night Laurens."

He smiled to himself, hardly able to stop and think about his own words before he said them. "Goodnight Alex."

_Alex...?_

Either his friend was too drunk to care, too tired to object, or honestly didn't mind. John couldn't help but hope for the latter.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Fun fact: John Laurens was actually known as Jack to his friends. But for the purpose of simplicity in this story, any time Laurens is not called by his surname— as well as in any narration from his POV— he will always be John.
> 
> **Translation: fucking coward.
> 
> ***Abolitionist (n.)- generally refers to one who favors the abolishment of slavery.
> 
> ****John Laurens' parents both came from wealthy families of planters. His father, Henry Laurens, helped run one of the largest slave trading houses in the country. I think this makes his personal objection to slavery even more astounding and admirable.


	4. The Story of Tonight

**Two Years Later**

***********************

The four revolutionaries returned to the bar countless times after that first night. They went to the bar when they wanted to celebrate, take breaks from their work (all except for Hamilton, who would often bring along his work wherever he went), and sometimes just to debate their friendly neighborhood loyalists. 

Their most notable night at the bar, however, had to be their last. It was the first night after Alexander finished his two-year program, and his three best friends took him out to celebrate.

"To Hamilton," said Mulligan, raising a glass. "Who accomplished what no one but us believed he could—"

"Do you think I did it faster than Aaron Burr?" Alexander interrupted.

Laurens rolled his eyes. "You _both_ did it in two years, Alex."

"Yes, but there still has to be some time difference!" he insisted. "Give me a week. A few days, even!"

"Alright, alright!" said Mulligan, who still had his glass raised in the air. " _To Hamilton, who probably finished his degree at least a few hours before Aaron Burr did._ How was that?"

"Good enough," said Alexander, smiling. They all clinked glasses and drank.

"Speech! Speech!" Lafayette chanted, jokingly. They all laughed.

Alexander stood up and cleared his throat dramatically. "You know fellas, I have to say: I think the _best_ part of my college experience was not what I learned, but what I had the opportunity to teach others....."

"Well if that ain't the most _Alexander Hamilton_ thing you've ever heard," Mulligan chuckled.

"Hey, I was being obnoxious on purpose!" Alexander protested.

"Aren't you always?" said Laurens. More laughter followed, and the young men drank in celebration of another year come and gone.

They talked for a bit, sharing memories of great times they'd had in this very bar, with the knowledge that their tiny group might be splitting up in the next couple of months.

"Any word back from France yet?" Mulligan asked Lafayette, catching the attention of the other two as well. For the past year or so, tensions between the people and government in Lafayette's home country had been brewing rapidly, and there had been a strong possibility of their friend being called back home.

"Yes, actually," Lafayette confirmed with a wide smile. "Though a chance of revolution is still great, they have decided that my efforts would be best concentrated here, where Britain is focusing at the moment, so that I might aid your country in victory. Looks like I'm here for a couple more years, at least!"

They all cheered loudly. "That's great!" said Alexander, relieved that they wouldn't have to say goodbye to their friend so soon.

"And what about you guys?" Lafayette asked. "You have already received your orders, have you not?"

The young men nodded with eagerness, and yet a stunned silence fell upon them all at once. Though one could easily assume that it was because they were all so amazed to have made it as far as they have come, the truth was that, individually, they were feeling a strange mix of intense emotions.

Hercules did not take the future that lay before him lightly; in fact, he personally felt that he saw it for exactly what it was: threatening, merciless, and extremely daunting. Hercules Mulligan was not one to be scared easily, and certainly the thought of going to war did not frighten him. The most worrying part for him was never the possibility of injury or death, but the thought of failure. He wanted his contribution to the war to be something his future children and grandchildren would tell stories about, and tell them with pride. He wanted to prove to the world that he could be something more than the poor tailor he was thought as.

Across the table, quite different sensations were plaguing John Laurens. Because unlike Hercules, the war _did_ frighten him. He feared death above all else, though he would never admit this to his friends. He feared being shot dead in his first five minutes in battle. He feared being blown up or fatally stabbed, or losing his life to disease from injury. Yes, death frightened John senseless. But it wasn't thoughts of his own death that had been keeping him awake every night since the four young men had received their orders for war. It was thoughts of the people he cared about, his best friends. Specifically, the young man whom he has loved in more ways than one for two years now, and whom thinking of in dangerous situations gave John feelings of physical illness.

Alexander, meanwhile, felt almost none of these things. His drive for success was far too strong to allow for even the slightest fear of failure. One could say that his mind simply did not operate on the same plane as words such as _fail, lose, underachieve,_ or _disappoint._ Instead, at this moment, the thoughts that consumed him were fueled by excitement, anticipation for what was to come, and of course, _ambition_. As always, his brain swam through the words that would compose his next essay, while at the same time conjuring up images of the battle situations he knew he would soon be faced with.

"Raise a glass, gentlemen," Alexander felt compelled to announce, his heart swelling with pride at how far he had come. "To freedom."

"TO FREEDOM!" His companions repeated loudly, ignoring the stares from all across the bar.

"Tonight is the beginning of the rest of our lives, and more notably of our decent into history. Because whether or not we live to see it--" (John's heart sped up to twice its normal speed when these words left Alex's mouth) "--America will be victorious! And when our children tell our story, they'll tell the story of tonight!"

The men all cheered loudly in agreement and and sloshed they're beer as they clinked glasses forcefully. They drank with eagerness, laughing and sharing in their excitement for the war, all completely unaware of the violent internal battles the others were struggling with underneath it all.


	5. The Schuyler Sisters

"Angelica, Eliza! Wait _up!"_

Eliza halted at the sound of her sister's shrill voice behind her, even while Angelica did not. In fact, the latter might have quickened her pace.

"For the love of God Peggy, what is it this time?" Eliza sighed, turning around in the middle of the cobblestone alley they had been cutting through.

"You both are too fast! My feet hurt! Can't we take a break?"

Annoyed, but sympathetic towards her younger sister, Eliza called to Angelica just before the older one turned the corner. "Angie! Hold on for a minute!"

Groaning audibly, Angelica turned on the heels of her boots and marched back to where her two sisters waited. "Peggy for the last time, if you can't keep up with us, you might as well go home. We don't have time for this!"

"What are we doing all the way over here, anyway?" Peggy complained, removing her left heeled shoe to massage the arch of her foot. Her wide, innocent eyes scanned the busy roads ahead of them, flooded with young men who appear to be either going to or coming from the enormous stone building at the end of the road. "This looks like....it almost feels like we're downtown."

"Maybe that's because we are," Eliza smiled, trying her hardest to be nice to her sister even though every word out of the young girl's mouth practically invited mockery.

"What? B-but," Peggy stammered, eliciting eye-rolls from both of her older sisters. "But Daddy specifically said-"

"Oh, don't you start again with your _'Daddy said'_ nonsense," Angelica interjected with a scoff. Unlike Eliza, she never wasted time trying to be polite when it came to Peggy's whining. "He doesn't need to know. But if you're so concerned about what dear old _Daddy_ is going to say, feel free to turn back."

"No way!" Peggy practically shrieked. "I'm not going back alone. Not when it's almost sundown."

"Then let's _go,"_ Angelica urged. "I don't want to miss the debates!" She ran ahead excitedly, paying no mind as to whether or not her two sisters were following.

"But....but _Angie!"_ Peggy whined after her eldest sister. She glanced up at the low sun anxiously. "If we aren't back soon, we'll surely be in trouble!"

"Like I said," Angelica called back without slowing her pace. "You're free to go!"

"Ugh! Eliza?"

Elize just gave Peggy an apologetic smile. "Sorry Pegs. You heard her." Then she raced after her sister.

The courtyard in front of King's College was packed, and the Schuyler sisters stood out like....well, like three young, wealthy women in a crowd of male scholars. Eliza couldn't help but blush as they fell under the intense gazes of multiple men. There were some wolf-whistles. Not one of theme even attempted subtlety.

"Ugh, they're all staring at us," groaned Peggy, who had evidently decided to follow her older sisters after all. "You would think we were slabs of meat."

"To the simple-minded men, you might as well be," Angelica replied from the front of their small line. "But luckily, we are _not_ here for them." She was still barreling through the crowd with her face forward, paying absolutely no mind to the countless men who eyed them so perversely. Her eyes swept over these men like they were but specks of dust in her line of vision. She almost seemed to be looking for something specific.

"Angelica," Eliza voiced timidly. Despite her normal show of confidence in Peggy's presence, there would always be apart of her that feared being seen as a nuisance by her older sister whom she admired. It was for this reason that she rarely so much as questioned Angelica when she wished to drag them on an adventure through the city, much less argued. However, today her curiosity was getting the better of her. "Angelica, what exactly are we--"

"Look around, sisters," Angelica cut her off in an urgent tone. It was only then that Eliza realized she had finally stopped, right at the bottom of what must have been a hundred stone steps leading up to a massive building. The area was packed with students, which Eliza knew they were judging by their white collars, crisp waistcoats, and the seemingly effortless way they carried their large books. Amidst throngs of acquaintances conversing mindlessly with each other, as well as the rare individual student minding his own business, Eliza noticed that there were several spots on the steps where smaller crowds had formed around men who seemed to just be yelling at each other.

"Look around," Angelica repeated, her voice full of awe. "And tell me what you see."

"Uh, men?" Responded Peggy, _her_ voice full of disgust. "Lots of men. And so much _shouting._ Honestly Angie, can we go?"

"It's the Revolution," Angelica corrected. Her eyes were gleaming. "It's happening. It's happening all around us, right here in New York, no less! How does that not amaze you?"

"Maybe because I am _so tired_ of hearing about it!" Peggy whines. "It's bad enough Daddy has to go to war, people shouting in the square, and now you--"

"Are these the debates you were talking about?" Eliza asks, speaking up at last. Despite her earlier feelings of unease, she had to agree with Angelica here. There was something about this atmosphere that just took her breath away. She could practically _taste_ the excitement in the air, and it left her parched for more. She wanted to be closer.

Luckily, that seemed to be her older sister's plan. "Come on," she said to Eliza, grabbing her wrist. "Let's find one that sounds interesting and --"

But before they could take more than a few steps, their path was obstructed by a man whose posture alone immediately indicated that he was different from the "simple-minded men" that Angelica had scorned earlier. He was fairly handsome by the standards of the day, though Eliza personally felt that his height left something to be desired. His kind face and attractive smile were all discounted by his unmistakable gaze of pure lust as he looked upon the sisters. Eliza grimaced as she took a step back.

"Excuse me miss," the man said, speaking directly to Angelica with a suggestive grin. Eliza and Peggy may as well have not existed. "So sorry to bother you, but I was simply passing by when the scent of your perfume caught my attention. I cannot help but ask...for what purpose would woman of your wealth and stature be slumming around these parts? Perhaps you're looking for somebody to take you somewhere more....sophisitcated?" He held out a hand as if expecting her to fill it immediately with her own. "Aaron Burr, by the way. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"I know who you are," Angelica snapped back, glaring at his hand as if it held a dead fish. "And you disgust me, Burr."

"Ah, so you've _discussed_ me," Burr quipped, his grin widening further. "What's the problem, then? You expect that I'm not rich enough for you? Well I assure you-"

_Whack!_

Eliza and Peggy both gasped as they witnessed Angelica remove one of her gloves to smack Aaron Burr's face with it. "I assure you," she spat, tugging her glove back on roughly. "Wealth has nothing to do with it. You could be the richest man alive and still worth less to me than the scum on the bottom of my heel. And _furthermore,"_ she continued sharply as Burr opened his mouth, causing him to shut it immediately. "It is more likely that _I_ am too intense for _you_. You think I am just another one of your empty-headed conquests, Burr? Daughter of a wealthy man- a _Schuyler,_ no less- ready and willing to marry the first man who offers to share his wallet? I've been reading _Common Sense_ by Thomas Paine! I know that Thomas Jefferson of the Continental Congress has been drafting a declaration of independence! I am more than aware of what is going on here, at the epicenter of the revolution, and I _refuse_ to be spoken to as if I am stupid!"

With one last burning glare at Burr, who now stood back looking appalled (and maybe slightly impressed?) Angelica shoved her way past them. "Come on, girls!" she beckoned her sisters.

They both followed without question.

As the eldest sister was still seething several paces later, Eliza finally spoke up. She hoped to bring Angelica back to her previous mood of awe and amazement, before Aaron Burr came along with his presumptuousness and misogyny to ruin her spirit. "Thank you so much for bringing us here, Angelica," she said warmly, taking her sister's hand. "This place....it's _wonderful_."

"Oh yes, I am _thoroughly_ enjoying myself," Peggy grumbled sarcastically from behind them.

Paying their youngest sibling no mind, Angelica beamed at Eliza. "I am so happy that you like it. I mean....goodness, isn't it just magnificent?! All of this excitement, the revolution, the war....it's all happening right here around us. And _we_ get to be alive to see it!"

"Yes," Eliza nodded in agreement, glad to see her sister's energy had returned to her. "It is amazing. We are truly lucky to be alive right now."


	6. Farmer Refuted

Not too far away in that very same courtyard, at the same time that Angelica Schuyler stood up to Aaron Burr in a manner that can only be described as legendary, Alexander Hamilton was having a rather intense argument of his own. 

Though for him, one might say it was simply Tuesday.

"And FURTHERMORE," Alexander proclaimed dramatically after a long inhale (his friends never ceased to be surprised by how long the young man could go without breathing during an argument). "Seabury's foolish notion that a tiny island across the sea should have any right to control the price of goods on _our_ land is such an unfathomable degree of stupidity, that I wonder how the man was able to hold a pen upright long enough to compose his moronic pamphlet!"

The end of Alexander's sentence was nearly drowned out by a chorus of combined cheers and cries of outrage.

"Tear him apart, Alex!" yelled John Laurens, and the volume of his enthusiasm alone was almost enough to drown out the protests of countless loyalists. And cheering right alongside him, of course, were Hamilton's two other best friends.

"For the revolution!" shouted Mulligan, raising a massive fist in the air.

 _"Vive la révolution!"_ Lafayette slurred loudly, taking an impressively long swig from his hip flask, which John highly doubted was filled with water as the Frenchman had promised them it was earlier. 

Meanwhile, Samuel Seabury continued to do little more than bristle at Hamilton's stellar arguments. "Heed not the rebels--" he began to address the crowd in a feeble tone.

Hamilton tilted his head backwards in an exasperated motion, almost seeming to be looking to God to save him from this insipid debate. "Goodness gracious, are you repeating yourself again? Give it a rest, old man! You've lost! Do I really need to say it all again?"

"Now now, Alexander," a low voice sounded out from the crowd. "I think you've made your point. Why don't you leave the poor man be?"

Having whirled around at the sound of his name, Alexander searched the throng of mixed students and civilians to pinpoint the source of the voice, although there was truly no need. There was no misplacing that condescending tone.

"Well well, if it isn't Aaron Burr, sir," Hamilton greeted his frenemy of two years.

Burr sighed. "There is no need to call me sir, Alexander," he told the young man for maybe the hundredth time.

As usual, Alexander ignored the redirection. "Sir, are you implying that you _agree_ with this imbecile?!" He gestured angrily towards Seabury, who was clutching his copies of his pamphlet protectively to his chest as he gazed up at the revolutionary with wide, almost terrified eyes.

 _Uh oh._ John thought as he watched Alex turn his offensive energy from Seabury to Burr. John knew his friend well-- better than most, he liked to think-- and immediately recognized that belligerent posture. He knew in that moment that things were only going to escalate from here.

"I'm not implying anything," Burr responded easily, but it was clear that his patience was already beginning to wane. Hamilton tended to have that effect on people. "I'm simply advising that you tone down your hostility. This man is simply stating his opinion-"

"As am I," Hamilton cut him off in a clipped tone. "The only difference is that one of us is right."

John figured now would probably be a good time to break this up, but he could barely take a step forward before Mulligan put a large hand on his chest. "Just let it happen, Laurens," the man said, watching the interaction unfold with the amused expression of a child at his first play.

"And anyway," Alexander went on. "I would much rather be _hostile_ than indecisive. I'm aware that _some_ people can't give a definite statement to save their lives, but not all of us are that spineless." 

"Alexander, please-"

"Oh, drop the niceties, Burr!" Hamilton snapped. 

Just as John had predicted, Alex was only becoming more enraged the longer that Burr remained calm. Seabury had long since scampered off, but it was as if Alex had forgotten the original reason for which they had come to the courtyard. His stony glare was fixed firmly on Aaron Burr now, as he stalked towards him aggressively.

"Will you not stand up for yourself even now?" Hamilton demanded. "Do you have no beliefs? No _passion_ to speak of? Are you even planning on _fighting_ in this war that you are supposedly apart of?!"

Burr did not retreat a centimeter even as Hamilton continued towards him until there was less than an arm's length of space between them. "You don't want to do this, Alexander." He spoke as if addressing an unruly child, but his eyes told a different story. He met Hamilton's vicious stare with an equally cold, unwavering one of his own.

Meanwhile, the crowd surrounding the two men stood frozen, watching the dispute with bated breath. Quite a few of them looked eager, perhaps hoping that the encounter would escalate into a duel.

 _Absolutely not,_ was all John could think as he pushed past Mulligan's beefy arm. He wasted no time rushing to stand in between the two, forcing them apart with his hands.

"Alright, that's enough," Laurens declared loudly, addressing the crowd as much as the men on either side of him. "Show's over!"

"It is not!" Alexander argued childishly, attempting to shove his friend aside.

But John stood his ground, placing both of his hands on Alex's shoulders now. "Yes, it is," he stated calmly. "Let it go."

It was clear that Alexander did not want to let it go; frankly, neither did John. Aaron Burr's noncommittal words and actions pissed him off as much as it did Alex, and he one hundred percent agreed that Burr deserved at the very _least_ a swift punch to the nose.

But he also knew that Alex would not stop at that, if his impulsive behaviors over the past two years were evidence enough, and John had no desire to see his friend get hurt mere weeks before they set off to war.

Thankfully, Burr was already departing the scene. His final words were accompanied with an exasperated expression. "Until next time, Alexander."

"That's right, RUN AWAY!" Alexander yelled, even though Burr was walking at quite a leisurely pace. "Run away, like you always do! You COWARD!"

"Alex," John hissed at his friend, grabbing his face to force him to meet his eyes. "Stop."

They locked eyes, and John watched as the other man's anger slowly devolves. He heaved a frustrated sigh, but did indeed stop.

"Oh, come on," Mulligan grumbled at the same time that Lafayette slurred out _"Laaame."_

But John did not care. All that mattered was that everyone was safe. _For now, at least._

John's anxiety was further soothed when the large crowd around them began to thin out at last, once it was apparent that there was nothing more to see here. Well, nothing except for Lafayette continuing to stumble around, muttering drunken obscenities in French.

"Reign him in, will you?" John said to Mulligan, jerking his head towards their inebriated friend. Both of his hands were still on Alexander. "I'll take care of this one."

 _"I'm_ not drunk," Alex grunted irritably. "Or a child."

"Could have fooled me," John chuckled, throwing an arm around his friend's shoulders as they headed back home. "You were throwing quite a tantrum back there."

"I was pissed!" Alex argued, even as he reciprocated John's friendly gesture of an arm around the shoulder.

"When are you not?" says John.

His friend grumbled some vague insult under his breath, but also looked to be suppressing a smirk.

The two young men left the courtyard without looking back, and thus without seeing the three sisters-- who had happened to witness the entire confrontation between Hamilton and Burr-- staring after them, smiling in amusement. At least one of the women's hearts was beating much faster than normal.

**************************

John and Alexander would walk no further than two blocks away from the college before encountering yet another individual shouting in the street, clutching a large stack of papers in his arms.

Only this man was no loyalist.

"A message from the king!" He announced excitedly, throwing a newspaper at anyone who looked his direction. "A message from the king!"


	7. You'll Be Back

The evening before Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens departed for Lexington, where they would fight in their very first battle under the command of the legendary George Washington, the two friends could hardly sleep.

Correction: Hamilton could hardly sleep. Laurens would have loved to sleep, had his best friend not been jabbering incessantly in his ear.

"The man is sensational," Alexander was saying about Washington, the excited puffs of air he breathed with each sentence warming John's ear. "The finest general to ever exist, they say. To have the opportunity to serve under him is an honor in itself, but can you imagine fighting beside him? That's what I want, Laurens: to lead my own army under his command. I'm going to do it, you know."

"I know you will," John mumbled, his eyes shut as he was still attempting to relax his body, trying not to focus too much on how his and Alexander's hands were nearly touching between them.

The two men lay side by side on the floor of their unfurnished, one-room residence, where they had been staying together during the months between leaving Kings' College and receiving their orders for the war. With nothing but a couple of ratty blankets to keep them warm, the men were well accustomed to sleeping less than a foot away from each other at this point.

Not that John minded this much; in fact, he'd dare to admit that he quite enjoyed it. Besides being incredibly warm, Alexander smelled of fresh ink and parchment, and of the sea to which they lived so near, and of something else that John could not quite describe. The man's warmth and scent were so intoxicating that John often sought it out even while they slept, resulting in countless mornings where the two of them awoke enveloped in each other's arms like lovers. Often times they would stay like this for awhile even after waking, both men holding and breathing in the other before one of them (usually Alex) would end it by getting up.

Those mornings and the nights that preceded them were some of John's favorites- so full of peace and contentment, warm hands and soft shoulders. And even though they had never once spoken of their shared intimacy, John felt that Alexander allowing him to remain in his arms even while conscious was his silent way of saying that he reciprocated John's love.

Unfortunately, this night was not like the others. That unadulterated peace that John normally enjoyed when lying next to his best friend was blackened by his apprehension for tomorrow.

He was definitely excited (maybe not as much as Hamilton, but excited all the same), as he had been dreaming about this moment since he was a teenager. To smash the redcoats, to claim their country's freedom, and to eventually- hopefully- help free the slaves as well. He had always been eager to go to war, his passion fiery and unbridled, and used to not even care if he died fighting for the cause.

But that was back before he had anything to lose.

"Laurens? Are you even listening to me?"

"Hm?" John lifted his head and opened one eye. He had still been trying to sleep, actually, tuning out Alex's words until the gentle hum of his baritone sent him into a lull.

"I asked if you read the King's statement that was published the other day," Alexander repeated with a snort. "That utterly ridiculous monologue of his--"

"Of course I read it," John chuckled. "He thinks he'll destroy our troops with ease, and that we'll eventually go crawling back to him. Complete horse shit, of course."

"Exactly! God, he's going to look so stupid when we win. And I'm going to enjoy it!" Alexander cackled loudly, the joy in his face practically lighting up the dark room.

"As am I," said John, joining in his friend's contagious laughter. "If we even survive the war, that is."

John had meant the comment as a bit of morbid humor, which Alexander normally enjoyed. The man was so extremely, almost ridiculously confident in his own personal victory as well as that of the colonies; he consistently guffawed at the very notion that any of them would die in the war. Which was why it was so surprising when Alex's laughter died like a stomped-out match, and he fell into a rare silence.

He was quiet for a long time - full minutes he went without speaking a word - and with every passing second John grew more unsettled. This much quiet from Alexander Hamilton was not normal. If not for the shallow breathing next to him, John might think the man was dead.

"Alex?" John whispered finally, turning on his side so that he was facing his friend with his whole body. "You alright?"

Alexander was staring up at the high ceiling above them, his mouth unsmiling and his brow furrowed a bit. He looked deep in thought, concerned, and....panicked? No. No, it couldn't be. Alexander Hamilton didn't panic.

"Alexander, what is it?" John prompted when his friend did not answer.

He was silent for just a few more seconds before finally muttering out a response. "You joke about that a lot," he said.

"What?"

"Dying." Alexander remained flat on his back with his eyes upward, his expression unchanging. "You bring it up often. Too often."

"What do you mean? It's just a joke, Alex," John laughed nervously. Lying through his teeth, of course. "Obviously we're not going to die. Especially not you."

"And what about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Stop asking what I mean," Alexander snapped. "I mean, do you expect that you're going to die?"

John's low, forced laughter continued, but he didn't respond. He wanted to lie again, but wasn't sure how convincing it would come out sounding. So he said nothing.

"Answer the question, Laurens!"

John startled at his friend's unexpected anger. Where the hell was this coming from?

Sure, John made a lot of morbid jokes about dying in the war, sometimes exaggerating all the different ways that it could happen, from gruesome to stupid. One time, he had mentioned that it would be hilarious if he was not killed in battle, but instead died tripping over a rock, or perhaps choking on a dried nut at suppertime. Alex had laughed for about twenty minutes at that. He always laughed.

He never reacted like this.

"I don't know, Alex," John sighed eventually. "I wouldn't say I expect to die, but...."

"What?" His voice was still irritable, like John was an unruly child whom he is trying in vain to reason with.

"But you have to admit it's a possibility," John finished. He turned his body away from Alex then, unable to look at him and see the disappointment in his eyes. He had never wanted to admit this to Alexander, never wanting him to believe that John was anything less than the confident, fearless man that he had met two years ago. What ever happened to that man? John often wondered these days.

"Laurens, look at me."

John turned back to find that Alex was now on his side as well. They were face-to-face now, mere inches from each other, and John didn't think he had ever felt so vulnerable as he did right then, with those deep brown eyes burning a hole through him.

"We promised each other something a little over two years ago," Alex said. "Do you remember what that was?"

"Uh....never to drink again?" John quipped, but did not earn so much as a chuckle for his attempt to lighten the mood.

"We promised each other to not throw away our shots at greatness," Alex reminded him. "Remember?"

"I know," John sighed. Of course he remembered. It was the very beginning of their friendship, after all, and possibly the same night that John began yearning for something new and strange that definitely was not friendship.

"And it's hard to be great when you're dead," Alex continued with narrowed eyes.

Still confused by how serious his friend was acting, John could only roll his eyes. "I dunno," he said. "I hear that most men become great only after they die. Sounds pretty tempting to me-- ow!"

Alex had punched him in the shoulder. Hard. "I'm not kidding around, you ass! No dying! Understand?"

"Alexander, please," John sighed. "You act as if I'm about to volunteer myself for a redcoat's target practice. I do plan on trying to avoid death, you know. I'm just being realistic here--"

Alexander sat straight up, throwing his thin blanket off of him as he leaned over John's body. He gripped both of John's wrists tightly, pinning them to the floor, and his eyes were the most astonishing combination of furious and terrified as he stared directly into John's own.

Alex's palms were burning hot and damp with sweat, but they sent cold shudders into John's wrists and down the rest of his body. He had to fight off a powerful wave of arousal so that he could keep arguing with his friend. "Alexander, what--"

"You will not 'try' to avoid death. You WILL avoid it," Alexander commanded. "We will fight those damned redcoats like hell and we will win. And we will BOTH come back home afterwards. There is no other option. Got it?"

"Sure Alex," John said, refusing to meet his eyes as he was still blushing about the fact that Alexander was basically on top of him.

"Look at me," Alex demanded. "Look into my eyes and promise me."

But John just glared at him, sitting up and pushing him away as he did so. Because as badly as he wanted to promise him this, he refused to keep lying to the man he loved. Neither of them deserved it. "Why are you doing this?" John demanded instead.

"Just promise me, dammit!"

"Alexander, what's gotten into--"

But the rest of John's question was cut off when Alexander shoved him back to the floor, reclaiming that hot grip on both of his wrists, and enveloping John's lips in his.

John gasped at first, every muscle in his body tightening in shock, but it wasn't long at all before he melted completely into the kiss. Alex tasted like spicy herbs and salt, and just a hint of the gunpowder that he used to clean his teeth, and John drank it all in with greed.

Soon, it wasn't enough. John tried to take the lead, shifting his weight and flipping them over so that Alex was beneath him, but the other man flipped them right back almost immediately and re-pinned his wrists to the floor. John ultimately chose to submit to him, but still broke free from the grip on his wrists in order to twist one hand into Alex's wild bronze hair, while the other explored the skin underneath his shirt.

Two years of hoping and dreaming and longing for this moment had made John insatiable, and he could no longer remember what it was to exist without this man's warm and desperate lips interlocked with his own. His mind had gone blissfully blank as soon as their lips met, in fact, and John could not think or remember a damn thing that wasn't now. Him. This. All he knew from the moment he allowed his mouth and hands to take over was that he could not physically touch enough of Alexander Hamilton.

He was just starting to wonder how he could somehow keep this moment from ever ending when Alex ended it. It seemed to take a tremendous amount of effort, but he managed to pull away. His cheeks were as flushed as John's own felt, breathing harsh and pupils blown wide. And still he managed to gaze into John with the same stern, unwavering expression as before the kiss.

"Promise me," Alex breathed.

"I promise." John did not miss a beat, hardly remembering what the hell he was promising, only knowing that there was nothing on Earth that he would not give this man right now.

"Good."

Alex leaned down to kiss him once more, so brief as to allow no time for reciprocation. Then he turned away from John so that his back was to him, and that was that. Not another word was spoken, nor a single touch had after that.

Both men rested with their bodies nearly five feet apart that night, both their hearts still racing long after the kiss, much to the ignorance of the other. John was left to reconcile with a roaring sea of mixed emotions, and Alexander spent hours mentally repeating the phrase What the hell did I just do?

Neither man slept that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes they did sometimes use gunpowder to clean their teeth in colonial times, fun fact. Learn something new everyday xD


	8. Right Hand Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait, but I hope the long chapter makes up for it!
> 
> Oh, and here begins the long-awaited smut. Stay tuned ;)

For six weeks their unexpected night of passion went unspoken of. Then again, for six weeks the two men hardly spoke at all.

Not that there wasn't ample opportunity; in fact, there were _so many_ opportunities for them to speak that their apparent inability to do so was almost comical. They were in the same militia; they trained, ate, and slept in the same vicinity. They had the same group of comrades with whom they would sit around the fire at night and swap humorous stories. John and Alex would often meet eyes when they laughed, only for their smiles to fall almost immediately as they averted their gazes from each other, engaging with any other soldier as a vapid distraction. Then afterward, when everyone turned in for the night, both men would set up their tents not twenty feet from the other, always hoping that the other would come visit in the night.

It really was quite pathetic, and hell if they didn't both know it. 

Unfortunately for them, there was one more person to whom this tension did not go unnoticed.

"Alright, what the hell is going on with Hamilton and Laurens?" Hercules finally snapped to Lafayette about four weeks into this nonsense. The two of them were apart from the rest of the soldiers for the first time in what seemed like ages, having chosen to leave mealtime early in favor of cleaning their muskets before tomorrow's raid.

Lafeyette didn't look up, didn't so much as pause his task. The only sign that he had even heard Mulligan was the slightest furrowing of his brow before he asked, "What do you mean?"

"You seriously haven't noticed?"

"Noticed....what?"

Hercules had to chuckle at his friend's obliviousness, though it was also a partial attempt to hide his own self-consciousness. If he truly was the only one in this whole damned militia to detect tension between the two men, perhaps he was reading too much into things. Perhaps there was no tension after all, and Lafayette was about to make fun of him for being dramatic.

Still, he had to be sure.

"Uh, how our two best friends who used to be joined at the hip never talk anymore? How we can never seem to find them both in the same place; or how when we find one, the other seems to have an excuse to leave? How they have hardly so much as _looked_ at each other since we left the city?" Seriously, _was_ Hercules the only one to notice?

Maybe not, thankfully, as Lafayette finally paused his rag at the musket's end, narrowing his wide eyes a bit as if considering something. "Hmm...I suppose, now that you say it, something _has_ been off about those two."

"Thank God," Hercules muttered. "Glad I'm not crazy."

Lafayette said nothing, his gaze suddenly directed at something across the field.

Hercules followed it to see a moderately sized group of their soldiers congregated in one area, circled around someone who was speaking. Even with the man himself blocked from sight and his voice too distant to make out, the sight of wildly gesturing arms over heads frozen in awe left no doubt as to who it was.

Hercules shook his head as he laughed, never ceasing to be amazed by the man's unwavering enthusiasm about war. "Oh, Hamilton. Never change, my good friend."

But Lafayette nudged him, pointing at a spot several feet away from the crowd, indicating what he was really looking at.

It was Laurens. The man who, not two months ago, would have been at the very front of that crowd, leading on a chorus of cheering; the man who was proud to call himself Hamilton's greatest admirer, his number one supporter, his best friend. The man who had stood loyally at the other's side, no matter the opposition, for over _two years_.... and who was now standing nowhere near him. Not even looking at him.

Instead, Laurens stood in the throng of trees very much apart from the whole scene, and facing completely away. He appeared to be more engaged in counting the sticks at his feet than anything else, which Hercules might have found laughable if it wasn't so unbearably sad....and bizarre.

"We have to go talk to him," he said to Lafayette, factually. Because now that the strain between two of their best friends in the world was no longer a speculation, but a known fact between them, there was no question that they had to help fix it.

"Yes," Lafayette agreed. The Frenchman's dark, calculating eyes were wide with combined shock and worry. He looked exactly as Hercules had been feeling for the past several weeks. "This cannot go on by any means. Although, it is possible that he won't talk-"

"We'll find him later tonight," said Hercules, firmly. "We'll go to his tent, block his exit, and _make_ him talk. We'll tie him up if we have to-"

Lafayette scoffed, muttering something in French that Hercules knew loosely translated to _kinky bastard._

"Oh, put a cork in it, Marquis," Hercules grumbled.

*** * * * * * * ***

John had a hard time determining exactly how he felt these days, though there was no doubt that he had already been through every single emotion known to man. Maybe two-thirds of them on that very first day alone...

 _Our first day at war,_ John had to remind himself, irritably. That first battle, at Lexington. _That_ was what he meant by "first day", because that was how he should be marking time now. Not by how many days he hadn't spoken to Alexander....

_Forty-three. Forty-four tomorrow._

John grunted in something akin to frustration, though was sure to trap the sound behind his teeth before it could escape into the thick air around him. He was almost afraid that it'd get caught in the smoke from the fire, and everyone around him would be able to smell his pathetic desperation.

Desperation....was that what he felt now?

Barely managing to swallow yet another noise- one that might have been a sob this time- John focused instead on trying to swallow tonight's ration of dried beef that he still hadn't managed to tear a piece off of. Not necessarily because it was too hard (even though it most definitely was), but because John had next to no appetite these days. At least, not for the past forty-three, almost forty-four days.

 _Fucking pansy,_ John cursed himself internally, then blushed. He was all-too aware of the man sitting just eleven people to his right, whom he often feared could read his mind whenever he thought something embarrassing, or self-pitying, or even slightly impure. But the man was plenty busy, as he so often was these days, speaking loudly and emphatically about his passions to someone who was not John.

Because he never spoke to John anymore. Not for forty-three days....

"Hey Laurens!" a familiar, boisterous voice interrupted his self-pitying, and his good friend Mulligan was seating himself on the ground next to him. He crushed him in a one-armed hug in the same motion. "Whatcha doing way over here, friend?"

"Yeah," said Lafayette, taking the spot on his other side. He rubbed his knuckles atop John's head playfully, but also painfully. "Are we not cool enough to sit by anymore?" 

John winced, though not from his friends' rowdy ways of greeting him. That, he was used to. The accusation that he had been avoiding his best friends for the past several weeks was far more uncomfortable, especially since it was true.

"Sorry," John replied, by way of giving any sort of excuse. Then he held up his barely-touched beef ration as a diversion. "Ugh, this has got to be the worst one yet. How'd you two choke it down?"

"How are _you_ not famished after today's drills?" Lafayette countered. "Anyway, I thought it was just delightful!" He patted his belly like he had just consumed a four course meal and was stuffed, though his concave stomach ruined the illusion. Not that it had anything to do with being underfed; the man was naturally skinnier than a flagpole.

"You gotta get that nourishment in before tomorrow night's battle," said Mulligan, moving the hand that held John's ration up to his mouth encouragingly. "Back to New York, remember?"

"Right," muttered John, trying to pretend that he hadn't just _now_ remembered. Back to New York. For the first time since that first day....

 _The day we left for_ _battle,_ he reminded himself, forcefully.

Mulligan went on to say something else, but it promptly became lost to a sound that was suddenly deafening to John's ears, though it was emitted by someone sitting eleven people away.

No, now ten. Someone had left, and he had scooted over to fill their spot. Which meant that he was talking to someone new now, who also was not John.

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either!" He was laughing. That golden, smoky laugh paired with that silver, husky voice; those platinum vibrations which were so crudely masked by the man's iron assertions, remaining unheard by most, but which were perceived by John as clearly as his own reflection in those bright, magnetic eyes.

_Alexander._

Wait....what was he saying?

"....The nerve. The _audacity,"_ Alex was going on, still laughing at a volume that silenced most of the surrounding soldiers. "The utter delusion!"

"What are you going on about, Ham?" blurted yet another man who was not John (because John hadn't talked to Alexander in forty-three da-)

"Only the world's greatest joke," replied Alex. "Remember Trenton?"

"Uh, you mean two weeks ago? Duh!"

 _Yes,_ John answered in his head. Trenton, New Jersey. How could he forget? Even if it had happened two _years_ ago, he'd probably remember every last detail.

He recalled that rush of adrenaline he had felt charging towards that army of redcoats more than twice their size, musket raised, ready to fight and maybe even die for that win.... only to nearly lose himself to fear at the sight of Alex charging to the front, even ahead of their then-captain Henry Knox, and start giving orders. _While_ fighting alongside them. It was possibly- no, _definitely_ the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

What had happened was this: Knox wanted to retreat not too long into battle, which admittedly, was unusual for him. Perhaps his confidence was shaken by how many soldiers they were losing so rapidly; this specific army they were facing was more brutal than anything they had ever seen. Though John had already witnessed so much death by now that he had grown almost numb to it, he could not ignore his growing fear that he would lose one of the few people he loved before the day was over.

Regardless, when Knox called for them to fall back, John was one of the many soldiers who were outraged. All fear and exhaustion aside, a retreat at this point would mean that the men they had lost so far would have died for nothing; which felt absolutely disgraceful. Still, they could not disobey direct orders....

But Hamilton, evidently, could. The young rebel had charged up to the front and announced that Knox could retreat if he wanted, but that he would stay and fight to the death. He insisted that they were evenly matched with the British now, and that they had a good chance of winning if they just kept fighting. 

And to the surprise of no one who knew how contagious Hamilton's determination was, the vast majority of the soldiers would choose to follow him over their actual captain. And of course they ended up winning, much to Knox's embarrassment. 

The remainder of that battle after Hamilton took charge had been riveting; though John couldn't lie, he had nearly lost his head a few times because he was so focused on Alex. He was actually saved from this exact fate twice by Mulligan and once more by Lafayette (both men had screamed at him like livid parents after the battle was won, demanding to know if he was suicidal or just stupid, clearly not believing John when he had explained that he was "just tired").

Little did they know....

"Yeah, you were a legend!" one of the other soldiers was saying now, in response to Alex's mention of Trenton. "Honestly, I can't blame Knox for not showing his face anymore. You made him look like an absolute fool. Hell, you're more our captain than he ever was."

John couldn't help but smile proudly, even while irritated that this random soldier who didn't even know Alex- not like _he_ did- got to say the words that _he_ wanted to say. Because it was the truth. Since Trenton, hardly any of them had seen their captain leave his tent, not even for meals. Meanwhile, Alexander had been leading the men through daily routine, trainings, and strategizing of his own accord. Essentially, he _was_ their captain.

"Well get this," Alex went on, ignoring the chorus of vapid praises and compliments. "That message I received last night? It was from Stirling!"

"Whoa, you mean _the_ Lord Stirling? From New Jersey?" 

"That's the one!" Alex said, now laughing again. "I guess Knox told him what I did, or he saw it or something, because he just wrote to me-" he held up the letter for all to see, as proof, "wanting to recruit me into the new militia as brigade major-"

"WHAT?"

"HOLY SHIT!"

"NO WAY!!"

These exclamations of awe and amazement were the new sounds that deafened John's ears, but this time the sensation was about as pleasant as squeaky iron. It almost drowned out even his thoughts, but not completely.

_No. Please, no. He can't leave. He CAN'T._

The realization that Lafayette and Mulligan we also frozen next to him, clearly just as terrified, was not a comforting one. This meant that John wasn't just experiencing pathetic symptoms of desperate attachment and longing for his friend; not this time. This time, the panic was real.

"So when are you leaving?" someone asked excitedly.

"Can we come?" asked another, only to be audibly smacked by the first guy.

"Of course not, you moron! Ham was _recruited._ No one asked our lame asses to-"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Alex shouted over them, no longer sounding amused like before. Now, there was more concern in his voice than anything ( _but maybe a touch of irritation?_ John thought).

The crowd was silenced immediately, like Alex had cast a spell on them.

"Who said I was leaving?" he demanded. "You honestly think I'm going to leave you guys? To go to _New Jersey?"_

Mulligan's and Lafayette's sighs of relief were by no means quiet, but were nothing compared to the one that escaped John. _He turned it down. He's not leaving. Thank God._

Luckily, their somewhat selfish relief went unheard by Alexander and the others, all of whom still surrounded the crackling fire while the three best friends stood far off to the side.

"I'm honestly insulted," Alex continued, though the amusement in his tone had returned. "I mean, come on. _New Jersey?"_ Again, he spat the name of the town as if it tasted like vomit. "Like, seriously. Fuck that place."

"Sure, but...but, come _on_ Ham," a soldier protested. "Brigade major! What are you, like, twenty-one? You'd be the youngest one in the Continental Army! And for _Lord Stirling-"_

"You didn't let me finish," said Alex, his firm tone evoking complete silence once more. It was really funny to John, how the man who could talk for hours had such a knack for shutting other people up. It really helped fuel that talking-for-hours talent.

"He said brigade major, and aide-de-camp," Alex finished.

"What does that m-"

"Basically, I'd get a cool title in exchange for being Stirling's bitch. That is, his secretary. His fucking _assistant._ And I'd be off the battlefield completely. You guys seriously think I want that?"

"Of course not," John muttered quietly, while his two comrades beside him nodded in agreement.

Obviously the other soldiers did not know their friend as well as they pretended to, because they all continued to stare at Alex in disbelief. It was obvious they thought that he was crazy for turning down such an opportunity, but were too afraid to say so.

And if this was obvious to John, it was definitely obvious to Alexander.

The painfully long stretch of awkward silence that followed was finally broken by Alex, who yawned dramatically. "It's getting late," he announced. "I'm turning in. G'night."

 _Bullshit,_ John thought, rolling his eyes. _The man never sleeps._

But again, the others didn't really know him. Taking a cue from their assumed leader, a few soldiers worked to put out the fire while everyone else prepared to "turn in" as well.

However, no sooner was Alex out of earshot, than the muttering started.

"Can you believe he turned that down?"

"I know. He'll do weird shit like that. Don't get me wrong, I admire the hell out of that guy. But sometimes he's kinda...."

"Insane?"

"Yeah, that."

"Kinda stupid, I'd even say. But, I mean....highest respect for him."

"Oh, definitely! He is amazing in battle."

"And a fucking good writer."

"But with, uh...personal life decisions, he's kind of-"

"Kind of an idiot."

"For sure."

John didn't realize that he was clenching his fists until Mulligan's large hand gripped one of his arms, shocking him into relaxing his tense muscles.

"Easy, Johnny," Mulligan said, moving his hand up to pat John's shoulder. "It's alright. Those guys don't know him like-"

"Damn right, they don't," John growled. "If they don't realize that he's destined for more than to be someone's secretary, then _they're_ the stupid ones."

"Exactly," Lafayette concurred. "Hamilton works harder than all of us. He never stops until he gets what he wants. He-"

"He's not throwing away his shot," John blurted. The memory of that night he and Alex made that agreement together- his first night ever knowing the man- was one that tended to hit him harder every time he recalled it. He seemed to recall new details every time he reviewed it, most of which had to do with how beautiful Alex had looked under that abnormally bright moon.

This time was no different; the memory smashed into him like the body of a charging redcoat, which brought to mind a completely different memory; this one from just two weeks ago, and that Lafayette and Mulligan did not know about.

Again, John recalled the Battle of Trenton. Specifically, a moment shortly after his focus had switched from protecting himself to watching Alex, but before Lafayette and Mulligan had realized this and rushed to protect him. A moment of true weakness and stupidity, which had seen John closer to death than he had ever been before.

John's eyes had been on Alex when the redcoat charged him, knocking him to the ground. John recalled how the British soldier's coat was even redder than it should have been, because the man had been shot in the chest and was quickly bleeding out, but clearly was determined to take one last life with him.

"For the king," the redcoat had gurgled, blood dripping from his mouth and on to John's neck as the man pointed his musket up under his chin.

John found it strange now how he hadn't even attempted to push the man off of him, how he had just accepted his fate. Maybe it was shock, or maybe it had to do with his ongoing depression throughout the previous weeks. Whatever the case, John had completely froze up. He had closed his eyes, time itself seeming to freeze as he attempted to make sense of the events in his life that had led him to this point. He remembered having the bizarre realization that the weapon was digging into a spot on his neck that Alexander's lips had been pressed against mere weeks before.

That might have ben John Laurens' final thought, had the weight not suddenly disappeared from his chest in that moment.

Of _course_ it was Alexander who saved him first. Why would it not be? Why would the universe ever have any sort of mercy on John?

John had unfrozen immediately upon being freed, bolting upright to thank his savior for shooting the man who had almost shot him....but was astonished, and damn near horrified by what he found.

Because Alexander had _not_ shot the redcoat. No, he had pulled him off of John with his bare hands, slammed him into the ground, and was still pummeling his face in with the handle of his gun when John looked.

The man was well past dead when Alex had finally let up, the bloody pulp at his feet no longer having any features that could convince you it had ever been a face.

John's eyes had met Alex's for about three seconds, the latter's blank expression shifting to one of white hot rage right before he ran off. A look that John could only interpret as _"You promised."_

But then he had ran. Never looking back. Never having said a word.

Because at that time, Alex and John had not spoken a word to each other for twenty-eight days. And yet, Alex had saved John's life; and committed an act more gruesome than John had ever thought any human being could be capable of, purely out of anger. Maybe anger at the redcoat for almost killing John, or maybe at John himself for almost dying, despite the promise Alex had forced him to make almost a month prior.

And still, twenty-eight days without speaking.

And now, forty-three days without speaking. Going on forty-four.

"John?"

Mulligan's unusually soft voice pulled John out of the memory-spiral, but too late. His eyes were already wet. _Shit._

"You, uh...." Mulligan cleared his throat. "You want us to walk you to your tent?" He put his arm around John's shoulder, prepared to do so regardless of the other man's answer.

But Lafayette muttered something that sounded like a particularly creative string of French curses before slapping Mulligan's arm off of John. "No, to hell with this," he snapped. "This ends now."

"Marquis," said Mulligan, his tone one of warning. "Now's obviously not the-"

"Laurens," Lafayette cut him off, leaning down so that he was face-to-face with John as he gripped the man's shoulders. "What in the name of God is wrong with you?"

John cast his eyes away from him, saying nothing. Though he wanted so badly to be able to mutter out some generic response that would at least delay this conversation, if not let him completely off the hook, he somehow did not seem able to. _Too many_ _emotions. Too many emotions. Too many...._

"LAURENS!"

"Lafayette, let him GO!" Mulligan commanded, pushing the Frenchman away from John hard. He was standing at full height now, which he rarely did when not in battle. And never against his friends. "I SAID NOW IS NOT THE TIME!" 

Lafayette's own menacing expression almost outmatched Mulligan's as he pushed himself off the ground. It appeared that he was also nearing battle-mode.

John knew immediately that this was bad. Though Hercules Mulligan was at least three times his mass, not to mention his weight, he knew that the crazy Frenchman was more than willing to square up. One or both of his friends would end up dead if John didn't stop this.

"Guys, guys!" John yelled as he placed his body between the two, one hand on each chest. "It's fine. I'm fine. Both of you just take a walk-"

"Maybe this isn't about you," Mulligan growled, his eyes never leaving Lafayette's. "Maybe I'm just sick of his attitude."

"Oh _ARE YOU?"_ Lafayette countered, his accent thickening dramatically. Another bad sign.

"Guys, seriously?! Where did this even come from?" John had a few theories, most of which involved heightened male energy from having been surrounded by men only for nearly two months, while doing virtually nothing but killing and training to kill. It was not unheard of for comrades to turn on each other like this.

"Move it, Laurens," Lafayette snapped, shoving John away. "This isn't about you."

"Well, it was before-"

"Well it isn't now!!"

Mulligan rolled up his sleeves, flexing his muscles as he glared at the Frenchman. "You really wanna fight me, migrant?"

"You bet your pants-sewing ass I do."

"Guys!" John tried again, desperately looking around for anyone to help him out, but the field was deserted now. They were the only ones out here.

_Dammit, if only Alex were here._

John couldn't stop this alone; at least, not physically. But his two friends were about to rush at each other, intent on causing major harm, and John just couldn't deal with this right now.

So he did the only thing he could think to do in the moment.

Stepping between them one last time, just as they started winding back their fists, John screamed, "I'M IN LOVE WITH ALEXANDER!"

The result was both as effective and as comical as expected.

Lafayette, having just been about to run straight at the larger man, tripped over his own feet and fell face-first into the dirt.

Meanwhile, Mulligan's raised hand flew to his own neck, as he appeared to have started choking on his own spit. He fell to the ground also, though purely out of shock, it seemed.

Blushing furiously, his entire body locked up in a massive cringe, John closed his eyes tight as he waited for his friends to collect themselves.

Lafayette was the first to do so. Face still covered in dirt, his eyes watering from it, he looked straight at John and shouted. "WHAT?!"

"Yeah," said John. "Have been for awhile now. And if you both can put your dicks away, and take the volume down about twelve notches, I'll tell you everything."

*** * * * * * * ***

Being back on New York soil made Alexander feel....strange.

Well, no. Strange isn't an emotion. What was strange to him was his lack of ability to discern what he _was_ feeling. It was like his emotions were a ball of twine inside his chest, impossible to untangle; he could never know where one string ended and another began.

Although, if he were to be completely honest with himself (which he often was not), being confused by his own emotions was not an unfamiliar feeling.

Forty-five days, it had been. Well, forty-four days, twenty-two hours, and eighteen minutes, to be exact.

BANG!

A deafening gunshot yanked Alexander from his thoughts faster than the ball of lead that just barely missed his left ear- a rude but necessary reminder that this was _not_ the time for these petty thoughts. Not ever, if he could help it, but _definitely_ not while leading over 100 soldiers on the most important mission of his military career so far.

The sudden smack of a heavy hand against the back of his head nearly knocked Hamilton to the ground. "That was fucking close, Alexander!" shouted Hercules Mulligan over the cacophony of firing weapons. "What is wrong with you?!"

Ignoring the rhetorical question, Alexander shoved his musket into Mulligan's unsuspecting hands, freeing his own to grab ahold of the rope attached to the nearest cannon. "Just cover me," he ordered, then addressed the rest of his soldiers. "COME ON, LET'S MOVE!"

Mulligan obeyed his comrade without a second's hesitation, now using both Alexander's weapon and his own to fire at the oncoming redcoats trying to impede their mission. 

It's hard to say how or why Hamilton always ended up taking command like this, seeing as how he was not a commander by any means. Not like Stirling or Knox, and certainly not like George Washington. No matter how extensively he had studied military strategy in school, it could never make up for his lack of status, actual rank or leadership experience; not to mention his extremely young age.

Laurens liked to say that Alexander was a natural born leader, though. He said he had a "commanding nature"; something about his confident attitude and assertive tone, and "unabashed pigheadedness".

 _"You talk in a way that makes people want to listen,"_ Laurens would always tell him. _"You have a powerful air about you as well, which makes others trust that you will lead them right. You just seem so sure of yourself."_

 _"I'm really not,"_ Alexander would reply with a nervous chuckle, admitting something to Laurens that he would never dare admit to anyone else. _"I'm confident in what I believe and I say what I feel, and I definitely want to lead an army one day. But....I'm so afraid of being seen as incompetent. And that if I fuck up even once, I'll never achieve what I want. Honestly Laurens, when it comes down to it....I have no fucking idea what I am doing."_

 _"Yes you do,"_ Laurens always said, as certain as if saying that the sky was blue. _"You are so much wiser than you give yourself credit for."_

Oh, how Alexander wished he had Laurens at his side now, smiling and whispering those supportive words in his ear. Instead, his best friend was standing nearly a hundred men away from him, closer to Knox than Alexander, shooting at redcoats to protect those that were stealing the cannons.

 _Please don't die,_ Alexander thought with a heavy pang of fear, remembering the battle of Trenton. It still chilled his bones to think that, had he not just so happened to be in the right place at the right time, Laurens would have been blown apart by that fucking redcoat.

Alexander had very much enjoyed smashing in the face of that man.

"MOVE OUT!" he ordered his men once he finally managed to tear his eyes away from his friend. _Not the time, Hamilton,_ he reminded himself. _Focus._

With many of their men having become occupied with fending off the British defense, Alexander found himself hauling not one, but _three_ of the cannons over his shoulder. Though the machines were on wheels, making this task possible, he felt as if his arms were about to break off.

"Allow me," said Mulligan over his shoulder, and the intense weight suddenly vanished as his large friend stole two of the ropes that Hamilton held, pulling the attached cannons as if they weighed nothing.

Alexander grinned at him gratefully. "Thank you, friend. Let's get the fuck out of here."

It took nearly all of his willpower not to look back as he led the line of soldiers that were hauling off cannons. When strategizing before the mission, it was decided that the defensive line of soldiers would stay behind to make sure that the cannon-stealers were not followed before they too headed out. It was a risky, but necessary job; and yet, Alexander found himself regretting this plan. Or at least, he wished that he was a part of that line in place of Laurens.

He actually found himself praying to God as he marched forward, which he very rarely did.

_Please don't let him die, God. Please. Please. Please._

*** * * * * * * ***

John did not own a pocket watch, but he figured it must have been just under half an hour after the cannon-stealers left when the small army of redcoats was successfully thwarted. With only a few of the British dead, but several wounded, the time finally came when it was determined that the remaining revolutionaries could at last fall back without fear of being followed.

"Let's go!" Knox ordered when this became apparent, waving his hand as a signal to follow him out. "We need to catch up to the others."

John moved out with the rest of the line, probably more distracted than he should have been, given their location. The only words running through his mind were: _Get out of here. Find Alex. Make sure he's still alive. God, please let him still be alive._

They all caught up with the cannon-stealers not too far from the warship (they could move faster, since they were not pulling along heavy objects like the others were). Laurens quickly ran ahead of the rest, just until he could clearly see that Alex was alive and well ( _Thank you, God,_ he thought) before falling back to the end of the line, lest Alex actually see him.

Now that John knew Alex was safe, he felt a sharp wave of frustration at the fact that he could not verbally check in with his friend. He found it ridiculous that it had been over six weeks since the kissing incident, and they still could barely look at each other. Honestly, even if Alex regretted the whole thing, would it be so hard to just pretend that it had never happened and resume being friends again? What the hell was the big deal anyway??

Unclenching his fists, John reminded himself to take it easy on his friend. He had to consider that maybe, just _maybe,_ he only felt this way because he had managed to confess his feelings to Mulligan and Lafayette yesterday, and had found them to be astonishingly supportive.

"I think a part of me always knew," Mulligan had said. "You two always did _everything_ together. And the way you would look at each other....well, in retrospect, it was obvious."

"I suppose I have to agree," added Lafayette. Then of course, being Lafayette, he had to add, "Have you guys fucked?"

"No!" Laurens had said right away, his face burning. "We've only kissed. And we haven't spoken since then."

Both Lafayette and Mulligan had gone on to express their sympathies for John's despair, while also assuring him that Alex was sure to come around.

"I highly doubt it is one-sided," Lafayette had said, unable to refrain from waggling his eyebrows. "If I know Alex at all, he does _not_ do shit halfway. If he started something with you, he will be inclined to revisit it before too long."

"I'm really starting to doubt it," John had admitted. "This silence between us has gone on for so long...."

"Maybe you need to say something first," Mulligan had suggested. "Maybe he's just as scared as you are."

John considered this now, as he walked several paces behind the man he so wished to be walking right beside, and felt a sudden urge to run up there and kiss him full on the mouth, in front of everyone.

The urge paired with his inability to do so- both due to social conventions and John's own cowardice- pissed him off so much that he angrily kicked the next rock he passed. God, he wanted _so badly_ to fix things between him and Alexander, even if that only meant resuming the friendship they'd had before all of this. He just didn't know where to start.

"You alright Laurens?"

John looked up to find one of the younger soldiers staring at him curiously.

John cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. I'm great." He forced out a confused laugh to boost the confidence of his statement. "We fucking won. How could I not be?"

"Just making sure," replied the soldier with a smile. "You seemed a bit off."

"I assure you, I am _fantastic,"_ John said with conviction, and he wished so badly that he could make himself believe it.

*** * * * ***

Shortly before they arrived at their base camp, the line halted so suddenly that several of the soldiers nearly bumped into the person in front of them, John included. _What the hell?_

A bad feeling growing in his chest, John soon began pushing himself towards the front.

"....I could have sworn that I had it," he heard Mulligan's voice say, tinged with combined fear and guilt. 

"Then _where the fuck is it?!_ " Alex demanded, angrily.

"Alexander, calm down!"

"What's going on?" John whispered to one of the soldiers towards the front.

"Hamilton can't find his musket," the man muttered back. "He's blaming Mulligan, who he apparently gave it to back at the ship."

"....I was too busy helping your scrawny ass with those fucking cannons!" Mulligan was snapping back now, having apparently had it with Alex's attitude. "And if you're going to stand there and blame me for-"

"Alright, alright!" Alex cut him off. "You're right. I'm sorry. It's not your fault; I'm just frustrated. Here." Alex put the rope attached to his cannon into Mulligan's hands, which were already holding the ropes of two other cannons. "Be right back."

Mulligan was too shocked to protest, simply taking hold of the rope he was handed, and it was several seconds before he found his voice again.

"Hamilton, WHAT THE FUCK?!" he yelled, but Alex was running fast, and was already far across the field.

Knox could be heard yelling after him as well, ordering him to come back, but of course Alexander paid him no mind either. 

It happened in an instant. One moment, John Laurens was staring after Hamilton with his mouth agape, along with the rest of the soldiers. And the next, he was running after him faster than he had ever run in his life.

"ALEX!" he yelled as he ran. "WAIT!"

Even as he ran, every muscle in John's body seemed frozen in fear. He was vaguely aware of Mulligan, and maybe a few other soldiers, yelling his name as he took off; but he knew that not a goddamn thing or person on Earth could make him stop running after his best friend. Not Mulligan or Lafayette; not any general, including Knox or George Washington; not even God himself. Nothing.

"ALEX!" John called again. His feet began to burn before long, and his lungs felt like they might collapse, but still he found it in him to keep shouting after his friend. "ALEX STOP!"

His friend did not look back once, however. He was heading straight back for the warship they had just escaped, to get his stupid musket. Like the impulsive fucking idiot he was.

And all John could think as he followed him was, _I won't let him die alone._

*** * * * * * * ***

Alexander Hamilton was said to have many talents: Writing, speaking, arguing, leading, fighting.... and countless others that could be rattled off by people who didn't really know him, but knew _of_ him. Truthfully, most people who spoke of Hamilton fell in the latter category.

Regardless of how well they knew him, one thing was certain: Hamilton was passionate. Both about what he believed, and what he wanted to do. And even he wouldn't deny that the intensity of his passion paired with his quick-moving brain often led to somewhat.... _spontaneous_ decisions. 

Well, that was what Hamilton called it. Laurens called it impulsiveness.

Most others simply called it stupidity _._

"HAMILTON! FALL BACK!"

"SIR, WHAT ARE YOU-"

"GET BACK TO YOUR POST!

"HAMILTON!"

The confused shouts of his fellow soldiers from different units- all of whom were perfectly aware of where Alexander's group was supposed to be- seemed to drown out even the gunshots raining around him. And just like the gunshots, Alexander paid them no mind.

"HAMILTON!"

This last shout accompanied a firm hand on Alexander's arm, which jerked him to a stop. The alarmed eyes of Captain Nathanael Greene stared him down.

"Young man, what are you-"

"One moment, please," Alexander cut him off, his own voice incredibly level and collected, given the circumstances. He ripped his arm away from his superior before he could say another word, barreling past him and into the warship.

Alexander found his musket on the ground near what had formally been the line of 24 cannons, and what was now just empty space. Mulligan must have dropped it unknowingly.

Bending down to pick up the weapon, Alexander felt the wind of a shot that just barely missed the top of his head. Another quickly followed. _Oh shit._

"Stand down, rebel!"

Alexander turned around and fired, taking out one of the three British soldiers that were attempting to corner him. He was already reloading when the third man fired, and thus recovered quick enough to knock out soldier number two.

But unfortunately, the third one was much faster than his comrades.

"I don't think so," the large man grunted in his stupid, posh accent. He knocked Alexander hard on the collarbone, sending him to his knees, before wrestling away his weapon. 

Alexander tried like hell to push himself to his feet, but the man was too strong, and was currently pressing the muzzle of Alex's own gun into the side of his head. _No. Fuck no. Not like this._

"For the-" the redcoat began, but those were the last two words he ever got to say.

BANG.

The deafening shot caused Alexander to open his eyes, which he had not even realized he had shut, just in time to move away before the now-dead redcoat could topple over on him.

Laurens stood a few feet away, the muzzle of his weapon smoking. His eyes were wide with shock and worry, but also a touch of amusement. And just behind it, undeniably, was that fond, loving gaze that Alexander had so missed being the recipient of.

"You know," said Laurens. "If these cocksuckers wouldn't waste time declaring their allegiance to King George every five seconds, you and I would both be dead by now."

Alexander cackled loudly. He couldn't help it; the relief flowing through him was like a drug that soothed his nerves, and caused him to forget every reason why being alone with Laurens right now should be awkward. "No kidding," he said.

Laurens held out his hand, and Alexander took it without hesitation.

Laurens pulled him to his feet, but didn't stop there. Before Alex knew it, he was being embraced tightly by a man who he never thought would touch him again. His scent was exactly the same as he remembered- warm, earthy, and familiar- and Alexander breathed him in shamelessly as he hugged him back.

"Never be stupid like that again," Laurens mumbled into his hair.

"No promises," Alexander replied truthfully.

Laurens had to chuckle. There was no arguing with that, certainly.

"They went this way!"

A not-so-distant shout from around the corner caused Laurens and Alexander to break apart, wide eyes staring right at each other. They shared a look which seemed to communicate the same message. _To be continued._

Nodding, Alexander picked up his musket. "Let's go," he said.

As he always did, and always would, Laurens followed Hamilton without question.

*** * * * ***

Several hours later found their unit gathered around a fire in the woods outside of Manhattan, just east of the Liberty Pole, where they guarded the cannons they had stolen.

It was still that same night, though closer to morning than night now. The indigo sky above was tinged with the slightest hint of pink, letting them know that the sun would be up in a few short hours.

Though most of the soldiers had been awake for nearly two days straight at this point, they were all far too high on adrenaline to be anything close to tired. They had won. They had WON.

And many would say that it was all thanks to the inspiration of one person.

"To Hamilton," Mulligan announced, raising his glass high in a toast. "Somehow both the smartest, and _stupidest_ man I have ever met-"

A chorus of laughs and murmured agreements followed that statement; but as always, Alexander took it with good humor, even nodding himself as he chuckled.

"-But undoubtedly the bravest," Mulligan continued. "And a remarkable leader. I am proud to call him my friend."

"To Hamilton!" everyone cheered, holding up their own drinks before downing them eagerly. Countless men downed another three or four within the next minute. It had been a very long night.

John was normally one of these heavy drinkers, who generally coped with the horrors of war by drowning the memories in alcohol until they passed out, then going on the next day like nothing had happened. Like they didn't just witness the gruesome deaths of countless good friends and comrades.

But not tonight.

"You okay?" asked Alex, who was sitting directly to John's left for the first time in what felt like years. God, it was good to have him back.

John couldn't contain a tiny smile at the thought, but didn't look up from his drink when he responded. "Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"You're nursing that whiskey like it's a newborn child," Alex quipped, nudging John a bit with his shoulder. "What is it, friend? You're not acting like yourself."

"Like you would know," John muttered before he could stop himself, then immediately blushed.

"Pardon me?"

Well, no backing down now, he supposed.

"Alex, we haven't spoken in over a month," John pointed out. He remained invested in watching the dark liquid in his glass swirl around as he moved it in gentle circles. _Don't look at him. If you look at him, it's over._ "And it'd be pointless to pretend we both don't know why."

Alexander said nothing, and John tried to tune in to the activity around them as a distraction. There was talking and laughing, and plenty of cheering, with only occasional groans from their wounded soldiers interspersed. But even the groans seemed to be followed by lighthearted tones, as everyone was happy that they had won the battle, no matter the cost.

Overall, the air around them was relaxed, carefree, and excited. There was no logical place for the tension that sat heavy in between John and Alexander.

John started with, "Listen," (though what was to follow, he truly had no idea), at the same time that Alex cleared his throat. Both men stopped to let the other continue, but neither of them did.

"You first," Alex said, after a moment.

"No, by all means," John allowed.

"Um-"

"Hamilton!" A booming voice interrupted, making both John and Alex jump far apart from each other. Unfortunately, this allowed space for the tall, blond newcomer to squeeze in between them on the log where they sat, and he immediately did so.

"Captain," Alex greeted Nathanael Greene with a nod, though far less emphatically than one might usually expect from him.

Greene, on the other hand, shook the other's hand eagerly. "Good to see you alive, young man," he said. "I must admit, you had me worried back there."

"Well, I'm alive," said Alex simply.

 _Thanks to me,_ John thought bitterly, though truly he had no desire to take credit for Hamilton's survival. All he desired was to continue his conversation with the man that had been so rudely interrupted.

"So I heard," Greene said to Alex, clearly impressed. "You're quite the talk around here, you know. Your reputation precedes you."

Alex just shrugged. This was old news to him.

Greene sighed at Alex's indifference. John figured that Nathanael Greene was someone whom people normally became very flustered talking to, and thus he assumed he would have this impact on everyone.

"Alright, I'll cut to the chase," Greene said seriously. "Hamilton, I would like very much to recruit you to be apart of my staff."

Both Alex and John did simultaneous double-takes, the former suddenly sitting bolt upright. John wanted to scream.

"Many think I'm crazy to hire someone so young," Greene went on, "but I know what I'm after. You've got _spark,_ Hamilton. You inspire others with every move you make, every word you speak. Seemingly just by _existing_ you inspire."

The captain's eyes twinkled as he spoke to Hamilton, in a way that made John feel unexpectedly jealous. He had to fight the urge to wrap a possessive arm around his friend.

"Okay....?" Alex prompted.

"What I'm trying to say is," Greene continued, "I've seen what you can do, and I would love nothing more than to have you by my side."

Alex's expression was unreadable as he replied. "And what exactly would that look like?"

"Why, you would be my aide of course-"

"Tempting, but no," Alex cut him off immediately. He stood up as if to signal that this conversation was over, holding out a hand to John.

John grinned, heart fluttering as he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet as well.

"B-but, hold on!" Greene stammered desperately, standing in front of Alex and John before they could walk away. "Alexander, please. You may not realize this, but I am offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. You know I work directly under _Washington himself,_ right?"

"Uh huh," said Alex, trying to sidestep the man, only to be blocked yet again.

"You would accompany me back to New Jersey," Greene explained. "You were just there not too long ago, yes? I command the militia over there, and you would be my most trusted assistant. It is a position that many only dream of-"

"I said no," Alex repeated, moving Greene gently aside with his hand. "I'll take my chances on the battlefield, thanks."

John followed Alex away from the campfire, further into the woods where the troops had their tents set up.

"You don't know what you're missing out on!" John heard Greene call after them, but Alex did not so much as turn back.

"Alex, what are you doing?" John hissed. For as much as it would hurt him to see his best friend go, he also wanted to see Alexander achieve the status he deserved. "Are you going to turn down _every_ opportunity that presents itself to you?"

"I'd hardly call being offered a secretary position an opportunity," Alex grumbled, continuing to move forward with purpose.

"It's sure as hell more than what you have now!" John snapped back. He had always been frustrated by Alex's apparent refusal to settle for anything, even when it was something that many others would kill for. No, Hamilton always wanted _more._

"And like I've always said," Alex reiterated, stopping to hold open the mouth of a tent for John. "I prefer to _fight_ , not write."

John stalled in his tracks, his eyes widening as he realized that they were not at just any tent, but Alex's own.

Through the entrance, he spotted the same makeshift bed and desk as the ones they were all given, but these were so uniquely _Alex's._ The man's belongings were scattered everywhere, leaving hardly a bit of floor to be seen, which was reminiscent of the dorm room they had shared back at King's. On the desk sat a small oil lamp which lit the space with a soft, amber glow (somewhat unnecessarily, as the sun would be rising shortly anyway).

"Are you coming in or not?" Alex snapped impatiently. He was still holding open the tent, but his eyes were focused intently on a patch of grass a few feet away as he waited for his friend to proceed.

Wiping his sweaty palms on his pants as discreetly as he could manage, John entered. 

_Yes,_ _this is_ exactly _like King's,_ John realized as he scanned the room for a space to sit. There were two chairs in the whole tent, and they both were occupied by tall stacks of papers. Even the bed was nearly camouflaged by a giant pile of clothes.

Pushing the clothes to the floor, Alex sat on the bed and patted the space next to him. "Sit," he commanded in a flat tone. His eyes were trained on the floor now, and John had to wonder if it was as painful for Alex not to look at him now as it had been for John not to look at Alex over the past several weeks.

John sat down without a word, putting a good two feet of space between him and the other man. And in this moment, suddenly overwhelmed by frustration at the ridiculous silence between them, John decided not to say another word until Alex did.

Consequently, not a word was said between the men for several minutes. The only sounds to be heard were from crickets, and the distant voices from the campfire over a hundred yards away. Oh, and that of the rattling bed beneath them, which was caused by Alex shaking his leg restlessly.

At last taking pity on his friend, John sighed. "Alex," he started. "I think-"

"I love it when you call me that."

John could only blink. "Huh?"

Alex did not repeat himself, not that he needed to. He continued to examine John with those dark, bloodshot eyes ( _is he sleeping is he eating is he resting is he taking care of himself at all?),_ and like always, John felt like he was being swallowed whole by those pupils.

Clearing his ridiculously dry throat ( _come on Laurens, get it together_ ), he tried again. "Alex, I-"

But the rest of John's sentence- whatever that may have been- was interrupted yet again when Alex's mouth crashed so aggressively against his that all of John's breath was consumed by it, along with his words.

The kiss was so reminiscent of their first that, at least to John, the past forty-five days might never have happened. Perhaps they were still on the floor of that rickety old house, making out fiercely under moth eaten blankets, with not a single thought or fear of what the morning would bring.

Except that unlike last time, Alex had no intention of stopping.

He shoved John backwards onto the bed, never once tearing their lips apart as a threw a leg over his waist, straddling him. Without preamble, he began grinding against him purposefully.

John gasped so deeply he almost choked, and jolted up in surprise. Alex pushed him back down immediately, however, keeping a hand on his chest. The message was clear: _Stay down. Let me._

John leaned back down in submission, arching his back with a groan as the other man continued to rub against him with urgency. It was clear that Alex wanted- perhaps _needed-_ to be in control; and truthfully, John was more than eager to hand over the reins. 

Soon Alex moved his hands down John's torso until they settled on his hips. Pushing up his shirt to expose the skin, he dug his fingers in tight so as to keep John from thrusting back onto him. _Keep still. Let me._

This rule John found much harder to comply with. He had to fight the natural instinct to seek out more friction where he desired it, but he managed to refrain from bucking his hips upward.

He was not to be deprived anyway, it turned out, as Alexander more than made up for what John was not allowed to reciprocate. Still locking his hips down in a painful grip, Alex pressed down so hard against John's groin that he could feel the heat of his throbbing hardness through their clothes, as if the layers weren't there at all.

"F-f- _fuck,"_ Alex stammered at one point, the first word uttered by either of them since this started. He threw his head back, letting out an uncontrolled groan, and for a second John swore he might lose it right then and there. Seeing his normally composed and articulate friend lose control like this- and _because of him_ \- did things to John that not even his most erotic dreams could ever match. _Christ,_ this was too much. He had never felt so aroused in his whole life.

Suddenly, just as John thought he was about to come in his pants from the pressure, it stopped.

"Off," Alex ordered, his tone nothing short of authoritarian. He was already loosening his own belt, sitting up and allowing John to do the same. _"Off."_

Nodding enthusiastically, John joined Alex in ripping off his clothes with urgency. Both men moved like they were running out of time. In a way, it felt like they were.

The instant they were both naked, John barely got a chance to look at Alex before he was pinned down again. Holding his wrists so tight that John thought they might break, Alex leaned down until his mouth was inches from his ear.

"Be still, John," Alex commanded in a husky whisper.

John's skin erupted in goosebumps, not only because of the way Alex's lips just barely grazed his earlobe, but at his words.

"I love it when you call me that," he breathed, parroting his friend's words from earlier.

Alex laughed softly at that. He bit John's earlobe lightly, causing the man's breath to hitch, before moving to capture his lips once more. 

For Alexander, this was like the first lungful of air after forty-five days of drowning: beautiful and relieving, but also staggering. A shock to the system, like hot water to a frostbitten limb, and as euphoric as inhaling opium. Panic, confusion, elation, and intoxication all at once. And dammit, he wanted _more._

Like with everything else in his life, Alexander took the lead; though unlike with everything else, his brain was not in charge here. It was his body- wild and uninhibited, downright animalistic, and ruled completely by impulse and desire- that had the control.

Consequently, the screams of his rational mind- those that wanted to tell him _T_ _his is wrong! This shouldn't be happening! You can't do this; he's your friend!_ _Stop, Alexander! STOP!-_ were barely distant echoes inside his head.

And it didn't matter. _N_ _othing_ mattered. Not his army, his rank, his goals, his glory. Not even winning the war. Nothing mattered except the beautiful man whom he was gripping like a lifeline, possibly leaving bruises in the shape of hands all down his body. Secretly, he hoped that he would. He wanted the man- _his_ man- to be covered in his marks. He wanted the whole world to know that John Laurens was claimed.

With that thought, Alexander finally broke his lips away from Laurens' mouth and began tracing kisses across the man's jawline. He moved down his neck, adding soft grazes of teeth with every kiss, taking extreme pleasure in the loud and desperate moans this new action elicited.

John, meanwhile, was in anguish. Alex was still pinning his hips down firmly, but no longer thrusting against him below the waist. He kissed and bit lightly at the skin of his neck, moving slow. _Torturously_ slow. 

By the time Alex halted just above his collarbone, John was near hysterics. He was hyperventilating, and tears burned at the rims of his eyes. His hands grasped wildly at the body above him, only aware that he was scratching when he heard Alexander hiss from the pain. John almost didn't care. He needed....God, he _needed...._

 _"Alexander,"_ he begged. "P-please. Please, can I- _unngh!"_ He was cut off by his own strangled moan when he felt Alex's erection just _barely_ touch his own, likely by accident. He squirmed to make it happen again; whining, _pleading,_ but to no avail.

"Shhhh, it's okay," Alex murmured gently. His mouth was still frozen above that spot where the base of his neck met his collarbone, and his breaths were so damned hot against his sweat-cooled skin as he breathed, _"Almost there."_

Then, before John could think to beg him again, Alex bit down hard and began to suck with vigor. 

John cried out, unable to control the volume of it. The man was devouring his neck like a vampire; a hot, wet suction so strong it might have actually been drawing blood, John didn't know or care. Tongue and teeth alternated eagerly in somewhat of a pattern, and the intention was clear. Alex was marking him purposely.

And as if the sensation wasn't overwhelming enough, Alex finally resumed rubbing his erection against John's, now in an intentionally rhythmic motion.

"Oh FUCK!" John shouted, startled at the increased sensation. He'd had no idea that he could possibly become any more aroused, and yet he was. "Ahhh, fuck! _Oh god._ Oh god. Ah-"

Alex clamped a hand down over mouth, suddenly pulling away and leaning in close to his ear. " _Shhh,_ " he repeated. His breathing was shaky, and John had to wonder if the man was straining to hold back his own cries.

"Quiet," said Alex. A command, not a request. "Almost there....relax." 

_Relax?_ John couldn't remember the meaning of the word. He could barely remember how to breathe. Alexander's thick cock was hot and firm between his thighs, spreading slickness against and underneath John's own, gliding closer and closer towards his ass.

 _"Almost there, almost there,"_ Alex kept murmuring .

John could only nod, his moans and breaths still muffled beneath Alex's hand. His other hand was grasping the back of John's left thigh, pulling him in closer, and it was only then that John realized he was finally free to move his hips back against him. So he did.

Alexander's blood was racing faster than it had when he stole those cannons, his heart pounding harder than when he had a gun held to his head. This was greater than adrenaline; this was _euphoria._ He couldn't think or fear or want for anything but this _._

He could feel himself nearing his climax, and pretty soon his desire to reach it overcame his need to dominate. He released his hold on Laurens, not expecting how quickly the man would seize the opportunity to move as he pleased. 

Faster than Alexander could comprehend, Laurens grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled himself upright, crashing their mouths together and wrapping his legs around Alex's waist in a single motion.

Alexander gasped. Laurens was in his lap now, grinding hard against him as he shoved his tongue deep into his mouth, and the very next thing Alexander felt was a large hand wrapping around his member, jerking it slow, a thumb just barely stroking the head-

And that was it for both of them.

Alexander came with a shuddering breath, throwing his head back from the intensity of it. He may have cried out something vague and unoriginal, like _"Fuck,"_ or _"_ _Oh my god,"_ or _"Holy shit,",_ but truthfully, he had no idea. He had no hope of hearing himself over the blood roaring in his head, followed by a heat in his face so severe that he thought he might pass out.

John's climax followed not three seconds after. He leaned forward to muffle his reaction- a half moan, half sob- into the other man's shoulder. He gripped Alex tight, one hand still on the back of his neck while the other was twisted in his hair. He inhaled his unique, intoxicating scent, which only added to the sensations wracking his body. Every breath he took in was more unstable than the last, and he wondered if it was possible to die from feeling too much.

Alexander gripped John back just as tight as they rode out their orgasms together, and they continued to hold each other even once they came down from their highs. Their bodies shook for a long time, though at some point it was unclear whether it was from aftershocks, or plain old regular shock at what had just happened between them. Possibly a little of both.

Not a word was spoken between the men as they stayed like this; not a sound was made besides breathing. After more than two minutes of this silent embrace, it became evident that they both were afraid to let go. Both John and Alexander knew that letting go meant defining this experience as over, effectively putting them in the _after_ part. And after was scary, because it meant looking at each other. It meant acknowledging what had happened, processing it, discussing it.

 _After_ meant deciding how to proceed.

 _Well, better sooner than later,_ John figured, attempting to pull himself from Alex's arms.

But Alexander was having none of it. He gripped John tight like a boa constrictor, refusing to so much as let the man lean away from his chest. He panicked at the very thought of it, in fact. Of having to face the end of this. The _after._

Surprised by his resistance, John tapped his friend gently on the shoulder. "Alex-?" He started, then coughed. He hadn't realized until now how _sore_ his throat was. His voice was almost too raspy to speak. 

_Just one of many things I'll be feeling in the morning,_ John thought, then grimaced slightly. The morning....

They had to talk about it.

John tried again to release himself from Alex, albeit half-heartedly. It's not like he was eager to leave the arms of the man he loved, especially not knowing what was to come next. Whether they be lovers from now on, or continue on as friends like nothing had happened, or maybe go on to ignore each other for another forty-five days.

Or perhaps a _hundred_ and forty-five days.

Or perhaps forever.

Eyes welling up at the thought, John prepared to push Alex away from him firmly this time, no matter how much it hurt. Because Jesus, they _had_ to talk about this.

This time Alex did not pull him in tighter, but did something much more shocking. Perhaps second runner up for most shocking moment of the day.

Alexander pulled John down into in his bed.

In the few seconds that they were apart, John tried to get a look at the other man's face, to read the emotions behind it. But Alex quickly put the lamp out, leaving the room too dim for John to make out the details of his expression, even with the light of the early morning dawn peeking in through the tent's walls.

There were just a few awkward seconds where he had to grab a nearby shirt to clean up the sticky mess between them before Alex climbed into bed beside John, pulling the covers up over them. He then pulled John once more to his chest, head to his sternum.

John could hear his friend's heartbeat, which pounded like a drum against his ear. Loud and steady, if a bit fast.

"Alexander," John said quietly. He paused for a second, fully expecting to be interrupted once again. In fact, he was so shocked when he wasn't that he completely forgot what he was going to say.

"Yes?" said Alex after a minute. His voice was tired; the word was almost a plea. He wanted to go to sleep.

_He wanted to sleep with John next to him._

Giddy at the thought, but also incredibly nervous, John could not help the question that jumped from his lips.

"Was this your first....?" he trailed off, sort of hoping that Alex would save him from having to finish the thought.

He was lucky.

"Yes," said Alex simply. There was a pause, during which John could hear the steady heartbeat go a bit frantic. Then, "And you?"

John thought briefly about using humor to ease the tension, as he used to love doing. He could do something like pretend to count on his fingers, or say _"Does your mom count?",_ or _"Sorry, what was your name again?"_ Any of these replies would have given Alex a laughing fit a couple months ago, had the initial question been apart of some elaborate joke, or even a situation with another woman.

But it wasn't. And things were different now; and truthfully, in this moment, John wasn't sure if he remembered how to tell a joke.

"Yeah," he replied instead, and he heard Alex's heart begin to slow back into a steady rhythm inside his chest.

John decided that he liked being this close to Alexander's heart. It told him things that the man's face would never dare say, like how he felt about John. He had to wonder if Alex realized this when he put John's head against his chest.

"Hey Alex?" John said again, again not entirely sure what would follow. Maybe he just wanted to keep talking. Never to sleep. For there never to be an _after._

"Shhh," Alex whispered back, almost inaudibly. "Shh, 's okay." He moved a hand up to run gentle fingers through Johns' disheveled locks, clearly trying to lull his friend to sleep. 

But John's muscles seized, nearly shuddering at the command. _Shhhh._ The last time Alex had said it was still so fresh in his mind, and probably always would be. He wondered if he would ever be able to handle someone shushing him ever again without feeling aroused.

However, Alex's voice now held none of the rough, commanding nature it had earlier. It was actually the total opposite; smooth, calm, and loving. At times, almost pleading.

"Jus' sleep," Alex went on, still stroking his hair, and still speaking as if already half-asleep himself. "We'll be okay. Jus' sleep."

And John suddenly felt like he could. Alex's gentle fingers continued to stroke his hair, though their direction was fading as the man drifted off. His breaths were deep and even; his heart thumped a calm and steady beat beneath John's ear. Such relaxing sensations.

 _So this is what heaven feels like,_ was one of John's last thoughts for the night before his consciousness faded, and he had just enough time to be astonished by the thought.

Though he had often found himself praying to God a lot more since joining the war, John Laurens had never considered himself to be a religious man. He did not waste time dwelling on the possibility of a heaven or hell, and even less did he consider which place he would end up in. He simply never found the curiosity in him, or if ever he did he was quick to dismiss it. They were all going to die anyway; there was no use wasting time worrying about where they'd end up afterward.

But right now, drifting off into a peaceful sleep next to Alexander, with those fingers in his hair and that steady heartbeat against his ear, without a thought or fear of what tomorrow would bring because the present was just so wonderfully perfect....well, John supposed he did hope there was a heaven. And he hoped that he would make it there; at least, if it meant feeling anything close to how he felt in this moment.

Or, if somehow this was all he had- if heaven wasn't like this, or if he didn't make it, or if there wasn't a heaven at all- he supposed that was okay, too. If this was as close to heaven as John would ever get, that was perfectly fine by him, because this was already more than he deserved.

So much more than he deserved.

Which is why John probably shouldn't have been surprised to wake up and find Alexander gone.

*** * * * * * * ***

"Your excellency, sir."

"Who are you?"

Burr's face fell at the question, so quick and noticeably that he was actually grateful that Washington had not even looked up from his work upon Burr's arrival.

But of course, he was crestfallen. And insulted.

 _Who am I??_ he felt compelled to snap, right before rattling off the long list of impressive things he had already accomplished in his short life. He had not worked this hard to be greeted by the general of the Continental Army with a lousy, _'Who are you?'_

But he took a deep breath instead, a reminder to keep his cool. Burr did not "fly off the handle", so to speak, or have fits of rage and immaturity in the face of his superiors. He wasn't Alexander Hamilton.

"Uh, I'm Aaron Burr, sir," Burr went on. "Permission to state my case?"

"As you were," Washington replied, still completely apathetic to Burr's presence, and not once looking up from the multitude of papers on his desk.

 _He's stressed,_ Burr rationalized in his head. _He's not ignoring me on purpose; he is simply overwhelmed. He could use a right hand man._

Burr smiled to himself, standing up a little bit taller. There was no way that Washington could deny his help, especially once he listed his qualifications. This was his chance.

Burr cleared his throat, and spoke on with confidence. "I was captain under General Montgomery in Quebec; I took over him after he was shot. I think that, with my experience, I could be of some assistance."

At this, the general lifted his head. Burr could see that his eyes were extremely weary, his face aged quite likely beyond his years. He was exhausted, frustrated, and clearly desperate.

Burr tried not to take too much delight in that last one, knowing that it would be the key to his success. Frankly, he was just grateful to finally have the man's attention.

Now all he had to do was keep it.

"I greatly admire your strategy of firing from a distance," said Burr. "You're on the right track, sir."

 _Kiss-ass,_ said that demeaning voice in his head that always seemed to sound like Hamilton. Burr shrugged it of.

"I have a couple of suggestions for you, actually," he said. "Some ideas for strategy. We can stay and fight instead of fleeing west, if you'll just hear me out."

"Yes?" said Washington, sitting up excitedly. He appeared fully engaged now, eager to listen.

 _Finally!_ Burr was ecstatic at the response, and ready to keep going....

Until he realized that Washington was not addressing him at all, but in fact, someone in the doorway behind him.

"Your excellency!" Alexander Hamilton exclaimed in his childish, too-eager voice, as he practically barreled past Burr and up to the general's desk. "You wanted to see me?"

"Ah yes, Hamilton," Washington greeted him back with a smile. "Come, have a seat. Oh, and have you met Burr?"

"Uh, yes sir," Hamilton replied, looking at Burr as if just realizing that he was there.

The two narrowed their eyes slightly at each other, as they often did whenever crossing paths. A reminder of the several, significant disagreements they have shared with each other.

The look was paired with a mutual nod of acknowledgment, however, as a sign of respect despite their disagreements. A reminder that they were at the very least casual acquaintances, if not friends, and would commit to appearing as such in front of polite company.

Actually, Burr did not respect Hamilton. Not that he would ever admit that to him, or to anyone.

"We keep meeting, actually," Burr added, lightheartedly. He gave Hamilton as friendly a smile as he could manage, while seething internally.

_Hamilton got called in to see the general. Hamilton? And Washington knows who he is? HAMILTON?_

Burr could only remain calm in that moment by entertaining the idea that maybe Hamilton was called in because he was in some sort of trouble.

Burr turned to leave politely, addressing only Washington on he did so. "As I said sir, I am excited about your strategy, and I look forward to hearing from you."

"Oh, Burr?"

Almost out the door, Burr turned around excitedly. "Yes?"

"Close the door on your way out."

Hamilton coughed, which Burr knew for sure was his attempt to hide a laugh, and it took every drop of his willpower not to run across the room and throttle him.

Instead, he quietly left; though he also had to fight off the urge to remain by the door and eavesdrop.

"You're not a child," Burr grumbled to himself, straightening and walking away in as dignified a manner as he could manage. As dignified as one could be when having being dismissed from the general's tent after barely five minutes of his time....

_You're not a child. You're not Hamilton...._

Burr passed by an empty wooden pail on his way back to the campsite, and kicked it hard.

*** * * * * * * ***

Alexander woke up that morning after five glorious hours of sleep- twice as many as the average for him- to find that he was not alone.

Well actually, that finding came _third_ out of four very important realizations that morning.

The _first_ thing Alexander noted was how stiff and sore he was all over; particularly his back, which ached and stung like hell. He felt like he had been attacked by a wild animal.

Second, Alexander realized that he was naked. And he had never slept naked in his life, let alone since joining the army.

Third, the heat and sweatiness on one side of his body, accompanied by the pressure of a head against his chest, told him that he was not alone.

And fourth, the person in his bed was John Laurens.

It took everything in his power not to leap out of bed as the events of the previous night (well, technically just earlier that morning) came rushing back to him. As it is, he struggled climbing out of bed slow enough so as not to wake the other man, all while shaking with anxiety and with a chorus of _holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck_ streaming inside of his head. That was a part of why he needed to get away from him so badly: he needed space to clear his thoughts.

Yeah, that was it.

Once out of bed, Alexander nearly broke himself in half trying to get a look at his own back. Not owning a reflective surface of any kind, he had to twist and feel around in order to prove what he already knew: his back was a field of scratches.

Touching the scabbed over wounds stung, but even worse were the memories that came with the feeling.

_Laurens clawing at him desperately as Alexander kissed and bit into his neck, assaulting him with sensations while denying him any sort of release until he cried, begged, pleaded for him...._

Alexander shook his head violently, willing the flashback to go away. _Not now._

He washed up thoroughly with the wooden pail and water provided to do so, then poured alcohol on his cuts to disinfect them. He hissed from the pain, then proceeded to drench his wounds with the whole rest of the bottle. It was a struggle not to cry out.

_Laurens crying out at Alexander's touch, covering his mouth to quiet him. Watching Laurens writhe in pleasure underneath him as he screamed into the palm of his hand and-_

When the bottle was empty, Alexander rubbed the substance harshly into the cuts that he could reach. He found light pinch-marks on his upper arms and shoulders, too, and proceeded to "cleanse" those as well.

The pain was good. He deserved to be punished.

"Not now," he muttered under his breath as he tortured himself with the disinfectant.

"Not now," he said as he got dressed only ten feet away from the very man he was trying to forget. "Not now."

_Not now, not now, not now._

Those two simple words had gotten Alexander through those painful forty-five days of not speaking to his best friend, between their first kiss and whatever the hell happened last night. Those two words were what helped the days not be so painful, by essentially "putting off" dealing with the pain, without ever having to deal with it.

 _"Not now,"_ he would tell himself whenever thoughts of Laurens crept in- thoughts of his lips, his body, his laugh, his eyes. That heartbroken expression he wore whenever he thought Alex wasn't looking.

 _"Not now,"_ Alexander would always tell those thoughts and feelings. _"Later. Not now."_

Of course, "later" never came. It was the perfect self-delusion.

Only now, as Alexander prepared to leave his tent with Laurens still fast asleep in his bed, he was having a harder time buying into his own bullshit. How was _"n_ _ot now"_ supposed to work when the man he was trying to delay looking at and thinking about was in his bed _right fucking now._

In his bed and facing away from him, with the blankets pulled up almost over his head....

Alexander tried to resist, he really did. He knew that he didn't deserve to see the marks that he had so selfishly left on Laurens's body, didn't deserve to take pride in looking at them, didn't deserve to get hard _thinking_ about them....

But he figured that he might as well dig the rest of his grave to hell, seeing as he was already halfway there.

Carefully, Alexander reached over and pulled the blankets down to just below Laurens's waist, ensuring that his groin was still covered. He was more focused on the above area anyway....

_Yes._

Alexander smirked as he examined his art. The deep purple handprints on both of Laurens's hipbones, from being pinned down and prevented from thrusting upwards. The dark marks like shackles around his wrists, which Alexander always loved trapping while he kissed his mouth. Various lighter, more subtle bruises where Alexander had gripped him hard, but briefly: tops of his shoulders, upper arms, inner forearms. He was also fairly certain there was a good one on the back of his left thigh right below his ass, but he didn't dare move the blanket any further to see it.

And finally, Alexander's favorite part: the neck.

The tiny bite marks trailing from the edge of his jawline and down his throat paled in comparison to the one he left just above Laurens's clavicle. That purple-red bruise, almost black in some places, was easily his most beautiful work yet. He could still remember how John tasted, too, and the noises he had made when Alex first bit down.

He was somewhat disappointed that the spot would be easily concealed underneath Laurens's clothes, though he knew it was probably for the best. Alexander himself was lucky that the whole world couldn't see the mess John had made of his back....

_John moaning, John screaming, John clawing, John begging. Kissing John, tasting John, touching John. John, John, John...._

Laurens. John Laurens was in his bed, and Alexander had no business gawking at him as he slept, taking sick pleasure in those bruises. He had no right to look at him. No right to sleep with him. No right to love him.

_Not now not now not now._

Alexander threw the blanket back over Laurens and exited his tent as nonchalantly as possible.

"Mister Hamilton!"

Alexander jumped and spun around at the immediate shout of his name, ready to defend himself against anything, only to find a young soldier he barely knew running up to him excitedly.

"Mister Hamilton!" the kid said again once he reached him, nearly out of breath. "Good afternoon, sir!"

" _Afternoon?_ " Alexander said back in disbelief. He had to look at the position of the sun to believe it. "Well I'll be damned."

"Don't worry about it, sir," the young solider laughed. "I think most everyone slept in. Pretty late one last night, huh? Wish I coulda been there."

 _You'd've been trampled,_ Alex thought, but didn't say. He guessed the kid was just under five and a half feet, and that was being generous. He was extremely scrawny, with floppy brown hair and youthful eyes. Maybe sixteen years old? Hell, he probably never should've been let into the army.

But since Alexander knew all too well what it was like to be judged for his young age, he chose to ignore this. The kid wanted to fight for his country, and that was all that mattered. "How can I help you, sir?" he asked him.

The young man appeared baffled, probably because he had never been addressed as "sir" before in his life, and needed a moment to process it. "Oh, uh, I'm uh...I'm Nathan." He held out a hand to shake Alexander's, blushing. "I mean, Hale. I mean," he laughed nervously. "I'm Nathan Hale."

Alexander shook his hand with a smile. "Good to meet you Mister Hale. Can I help y-?"

"Good to meet you too!" Hale blurted. "I've heard a lot about you. Everything you've done. So inspiring. And how you stole those cannons-"

Alexander sighed. As adorable as the kid was, he really wasn't up to being fawned over. At this moment, he'd have preferred to be treated like the piece of shit he actually was.

"Can I help you?" Alexander repeated, interrupting the kid's rambling.

"Oh! Right, sorry." Hale blushed as he handed Alex a piece of paper he was clutching tightly in one hand. "General Washington wants to see you."

Alexander did a double-take, having barely looked at the note himself when Hale said that. "Seriously?"

"Yeah! He told me to tell you. Well, that's not true. He told Baylor, who wrote this note to give Reed to give to you, but Reed said that he couldn't find you- but between you and me, I think he only looked for like five minutes- so he gave the note to Harrison, who didn't want to look for you, so I volunteered! I didn't know where your tent was, so I walked around for like half an hour...."

Nathan Hale kept babbling on, but Alexander had long since tuned him out. He was staring at the note, which indeed said that Washington requested his presence ASAP.

He couldn't believe it. George Washington, Continental Army _General,_ wanted to see _him,_ Alexander Hamilton. And _as_ _soon as possible,_ according to the note.

Which meant that he was already late.

"Thank you," Alexander said quickly, cutting off whatever Hale was saying. He shook the kid's hand again, politely dismissing him. "Have a good day, Mister Hale."

"Hey, you too Mister Hamilton!!" Hale replied happily. "It was great meeting you! I'd love to chat again sometime-"

But Alexander had already taken off across the campgrounds.

*** * * * ***

"....Close the door on your way out."

Alexander couldn't contain the scoff that slipped out at Washington's parting words to Aaron Burr, who had been speaking to the general when he arrived. (Probably kissing his ass, as he was known to do).

Burr definitely heard it, if the glare he shot Alexander just before exiting was anything to go by, but Alex couldn't have cared less. Not with _George freaking Washington_ sitting in front of him, eyes gleaming expectantly.

 _Perhaps he's expecting me to start,_ Alex presumed, when ten long seconds of silence followed Burr's departure. _Okay then._

"Have I done something wrong, sir?" he asked, wanting to get this fear out of the way first and foremost. On the way here, he couldn't help but fall into doubts that the general himself could possibly want to see him for anything positive.

"On the contrary," Washington replied, much to Alexander's relief. "I called you in here to discuss serious matters concerning our position in the war. Specifically, _your_ position."

Alexander shifted in his seat, his nerves heightening again. What was he talking about?

"You know you have quite the reputation, right?"

"Yes sir," Alex replied, though truthfully he wanted to groan. Sure, he was proud of his reputation, but he would much rather have something come of it other than people talking about it all the time.

"But..." Washington continued, startling Alexander with a low chuckle.

"Sir?" the younger man prompted.

"Hamilton, how come no one can get you on their staff?"

"....Sir?" Alexander repeated, unsure how else to respond to the half-accusation, half-amused comment. 

Washington stood up, making Alexander feel incredibly small in his chair.

"Don't get me wrong," Washington went on, beginning to pace slowly around the room. "You're a young man of great renown. I've heard about everything. Your astounding leadership at the Battle of Trenton, how you took command of your fellow men without hesitation, and fought alongside them with courage. I've heard of you putting yourself in the line of fire for your comrades, seemingly on impulse. And of course, the cannons...."

Alexander could only gape at the general. The cannons he could understand; _everyone_ had heard about that one, it seemed. But the Battle of Trenton, and everything else? Specifically the "putting yourself in the line of fire" comment, which almost seemed like a direct reference to when he had saved Laurens's life. How the hell could he know-?

"I've heard it all from the very same men you turned away," Washington explained, in response to Alexander's baffled expression. "Nathanael Greene, Lord Stirling, and even Knox. They've all told me how clever and reliable you are. A wonderful asset, they say-"

Perhaps it was the word _asset,_ but Alexander felt his blood start to boil. He had gone from nervous to confused, to strangely flattered over the past minute or two, but now all he could feel was rage.

"Yeah, because they all wanted me as their fucking secretary!" Alexander snapped, bolting to his feet. "They don't care what I can do, unless it's what I can do _for them._ They want someone to shine their boots and write their fucking letters, and they think I'll do it because I'm ' _dependable',"_ he both spat the word out and put it in air quotations, to emphasize his disdain for the adjective. "Sorry, but I don't think so!"

Of course, he wasn't sorry at all. Not even for speaking to Washington the way he was.

 _Shut up now, Alexander,_ said a nagging voice in his head, which always sounded disturbingly similar to Aaron Burr. _Throwing a tantrum won't get you anywhere._

"Why are you upset?"

The question startled Alexander to look up from his shoes, which he had been glowering at like a child, and see Washington looking at him not with frustration, but with compassion. His question was not at all rhetorical, he really did want to know why Alex was upset.

"I'm not," Alexander mumbled, for lack of a better response.

Washington only smiled, his amusement at Alexander's defiance clearly growing. He pulled his chair out from behind his desk and around to the front of it, seating himself directly next to the younger man.

"It's alright, you know," he said.

"Huh?"

"I get it. You want to fight. You want to be apart of the action, not behind it. When you used to dream of war, you dreamed of leading men into battle. And you would much rather die fighting for your country than write about those who did."

Alexander's mouth dropped. It was as if Washington was inside his head, reading his thoughts and dreams word for word. How did he-?

"I was just like you when I was younger," Washington explained, answering the unasked question. "Head full of the very same fantasies, of dying like a martyr. But here's the thing," he leaned forward, ensuring that Alexander was looking straight at him before he continued. Then he whispered his next words, as if telling him a secret.

"There is no glory in dying young," he said. "There _is_ glory in living long enough to accomplish the things you're destined to. And you'll notice the most significant difference between the two, yes? Other than glory?"

Alexander shrugged. It was quite a challenge to remain as stubbornly apathetic as he wanted to be, while so enraptured by the man's words.

"Dying is easy, young man," Washington explained. "Living is harder."

"Why are you telling me this?" Alexander snapped, rather than admitting that the last statement had given him goosebumps 

Washington stood back up, and only now did Alex realize that the man had slipped into a somewhat paternal role for a moment there. Now, he was back into full general mode.

"Because we are suffering, and nearing defeat," Washington answered honestly. "We are out of money, out of men, out of _food._ I'm working with a third of what Congress promised us, and to top it off...." he hesitated before admitting this last part, "my forces are week. They're skittish and noncommittal; you saw it yourself at Trenton. Well, the same thing has been happening in multiple battles, with soldiers running, their officers not competent enough to lead them; and well, they don't all have an Alexander Hamilton to save them.

"The point is," Washington wrapped up with a sigh. "They need me out there now more than ever, but I cannot be everywhere at once. I am in _dire_ need of assistance. So...?"

There was no need for him to state the question outright; Alexander already knew what it was. It was the same question he had been dodging for weeks, that he'd just had an outburst about. The same one he swore that he would _never_ say yes to. Not for anyone. Not even the great George Washington.

_Are you going to turn down every opportunity that presents itself to you?_

Laurens's voice sounded out so unexpectedly loud inside his head that Alexander jolted. He looked behind him, half-expecting to see his friend standing there and shaking his head disapprovingly, but of course there was no one. And even if Laurens _were_ here, Alex doubted he would be looking at him at all.

_Not now, dammit. Not now._

Alexander closed his mouth and swallowed, suddenly uncertain. Would saying no to being Washington's aide count as throwing away his shot, something he had sworn a million years ago not to do? Perhaps all these offers _were_ opportunities, and turning his nose up at them was only preventing him from achieving his goals.

 _It's sure as hell more than what you have now!_ Laurens had said in response to Alexander's claim the position was "just a secretary", and of course he had dismissed the comment without a thought.

But maybe, just maybe, Laurens was right.

Maybe Laurens was right

"Hamilton?" Washington prompted, still awaiting his answer.

 _This is wrong!_ his head had tried screaming at him last night, and said loud and clear this morning. It was wrong. It was wrong it was wrong it was wrong.

But fuck, it had felt so right.

 _Not now_.

Yes, now.

"I'll do it," said Alexander at last. His brain was already working at a million miles a minute, as usual. Maybe even faster now that he was so eager to get out of here

"I know we're severely outmanned," said Alexander. "My soldiers can help. Uh, I mean, the soldiers I am with-"

"Your soldiers," Washington corrected, nodding with a smile. "Continue."

"I have three friends," Alexander went on. "I mean, men.... _skilled marksmen_ who can be of some assistance. Just as long as they can follow us wherever we're going."

"Absolutely," said Washington. He was bent over his desk once more, already making notes. "Okay, what else?"

"I think one could make an excellent spy-"

"Spy?"

"An idea I've had for awhile," Alexander explained with a slight smirk. "We need someone to infiltrate the British army and gain information. As for supplies, allow me to write to Congress about it. I have a feeling that I can persuade them."

"Very good," said Washington.

"Oh, and also," Alex felt compelled to add. "It would be good to look at different types of warfare."

"I agree," said Washington immediately. "It'd be foolish not to admit that the British are far better trained and equipped than we are. If we keep pursuing open battle, we will never win. Personally, I was thinking-"

"More raids?"

Washington chuckled, likely at the sudden eagerness in Hamilton's voice. "Precisely."

Alexander had to admit, he was getting excited now. He may not have the commanding power he wanted with this new position, but if the major general himself was using his ideas....maybe he _was_ still leading, in a way.

"Now about your new position," said Washington suddenly, as if he had been reading Alex's mind. His tone was firm, and once again had a sort of parental undertone. "Yes, I will occasionally be discussing strategy with you, as you will be my right hand man. However, I am still your superior-"

"-Of course, sir-"

"And you _will_ do what I say. Every time. I _mean_ it." His eyes narrowed, and Alexander understood the emphasis of this point at last. By now, George Washington had heard plenty about Hamilton's rebelliousness and occasional disrespect towards his other superiors, and was making it clear that this would not be tolerated with him.

Alexander met his eyes. "Yes sir."

"Good. Now, your primary duties will include drafting my correspondences and manning my journal. Otherwise, I will simply need you to be where I cannot. _Not_ as a commander, though. Not unless I say. Understood?"

"....Yes sir."

"Excellent. We will reconvene tomorrow before we move on to our next location," said Washington, implying the conclusion of their meeting. "I want to see you here before daybreak; don't make me have to hunt you down again."

"Of course." Alexander nodded rapidly. He was twitching with anxiety, not so much at being here in front of the general anymore, but at the thought of where he was going next. Of _whom_ he was going to next.

"Alright son, I look forward to working with you. And I promise I won't make you shine my boots."

That last quip, accompanied by Washington's barking laugh, was so unexpected that Alexander was unprepared for the large hand that clapped him on the back.

"Ow!" Alex yelped, flinching dramatically at the reignited pain under the back of his shirt.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Washington immediately. "Battle wounds?"

"Yeah, it's alright. Gotta go now. See you tomorrow!"

Alexander left the general's tent at the most casual speed he could manage before taking off into a run, his face now as fiery hot as his back.

*** * * * ***

Alexander wasn't sure if he had hoped that Laurens would still be there or not until he arrived, saw that he _was_ still there, and breathed an enormous sigh of relief. The man's silhouette was so still that it was almost invisible in the dim light of the tent, but there was no doubt that it was him. 

Laurens sat now fully dressed on the bed, facing away from the entrance. His hair was tied back now, and damp; he had clearly washed it.

"You're back," said Laurens without looking at him.

"You're still here," Alexander responded. A stupidly obvious statement to match Laurens's own; though admittedly, he didn't know what else to say.

He noticed that, in addition to cleaning himself, Laurens had also cleaned and made the bed he was sitting on, which made Alex wonder how long he had been awake. Surely long enough to think over what had happened last night, and to leave if he decided that he didn't want to see or speak to Alexander ever again.

Evidently, he had not decided this; at least, not yet. This alone calmed Alexander a bit and encouraged him to find more words.

"I'm glad," he said.

Laurens looked up at last, eyes that normally shone so bright at Alexander now clouded over. Guarded.

"That you're still here, I mean," Alex specified. He cleared his throat. "I, uh....I wouldn't have blamed you for leaving."

"Is that why you left? Because you assumed that I would too?"

Alexander flinched, more in guilt than at any venom in his friend's tone, of which there was next to none. He could tell that Laurens was more upset than he was trying to let on, but it wasn't anger. It wasn't even sadness, worse than that, but Alex couldn't describe it. All he knew was that it made him want to gut himself.

He supposed he could tell Laurens that Washington had summoned him for a meeting, because that was technically the truth. But it wasn't the whole truth. And he refused to lie to Laurens- even partially- anymore.

"I left because I was afraid," he said instead. "I still am."

"Afraid of what?"

It was an honest question, no malice nor hint of accusation behind it, and still it made Alexander wish he could sink into the earth to avoid it.

"Afraid that I don't really want this?" Laurens guessed, standing up. "Or that you _do_ want this?"

"Both." It was almost funny how easy it was for him to admit this now, even with John Laurens striding steadily towards him, igniting more fire into his veins with every step closer he grew. Easier than breathing. "I'm afraid of both of us wanting this, actually."

"Why?" Laurens was within arms reach of him now, but did not reach out. He simply stood there and waited, staring straight through Alexander with his still-guarded eyes, as if to taunt him. Taunt him with smiles unshared, touches not yet had. Taunt him with how delicious he smelled....

"God dammit," Alex said aloud, then blushed because that was supposed to be only a thought. "I mean, I'm scared of what it...what _this,"_ he gestured between the two of them, "means. What it means for us and, and for _everything._ And because it's wrong-"

Laurens just laughed at that, not even derisively. "Since when do you pay mind to what others believe is wrong? Since when are you afraid?"

"Since now." Dammit, Alexander hated how honest he was being at the moment. Almost _aggressively_ honest. He had to bite his tongue to withhold the rest of that sentence: _You bring it out in me, John. You bring out many thoughts and feelings I've never before allowed myself to experience, and fear is only one of them._

"Well who the fuck cares?" Laurens snapped, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Still an arm's width away. Still too damn far. "Why does it have to matter?"

Was he standing that far away on purpose? Just far enough that Alex had to be the one to reach out if he wanted touch?

If that was the game, he was winning. Finally unable to restrain himself any longer, Alexander reached out a slow, shaky hand to Laurens's face. He touched it, caressing the stubble on his jawline, then moved down the side of his neck. He traced two fingers over a trio of light-purple marks that extended from just below his jaw to just above his high-buttoned collar, below which he knew many more to be hidden.

Laurens closed his eyes and leaned in to his touch. He shuddered.

Alexander reveled in it.

"Please," Laurens begged softly, leaning into Alex even more now, so that his lips were pressed against the inside of his wrist. "Tell me we don't have to fight this anymore."

Alexander swallowed, inhaling sharply at the cold-warm feeling of Laurens's slightly parted lips against his wrist. He could almost feel his tongue there.

Swallowing what felt like a knife in his throat, Alexander gave voice to his final unmentioned fear. "What if I hurt you?" 

Laurens froze, which Alex only knew because he felt the mouth stop moving up his arm. He couldn't look to see the expression on the man's face, couldn't bare to see the fear in his eyes as it surely dawned on him that this was a real possibility; that this could never work, at least not forever; that one of them would get hurt in the end, and that it would most likely be Laurens because his heart worked so much better than Alexander's own; and-

Laurens suddenly gripped Alexander's face tightly in both of his hands. "Alex, look at me."

 _Alex._ Multiple people had called him that over the years- or tried to, anyway- but no one said it quite like....like John.

Alexander looked at him. Those steel blue eyes were clear once more, exactly as they should be when directed his way. All bright and knowing, and just a little bit mischievous. Calculating and thoughtful all at once; inviting and daring. A question and a challenge.

A three second look between John and Alex was a three-minute conversation. They both saw so well through the other's mask- the fears, the anxieties, the secrets buried there- primarily because the other allowed it. That easy, unspoken trust between them had been apparent from the day they met, maybe the very moment. And hell, if ever there was a definition for soulmate....

"Alex."

Alexander moved his eyes from where they had wandered- John's lips- and back to those sapphire pools he loved just as much. "John?"

And for the first time, John was the one to lean in first and engulf Alex's mouth in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have reached the point in the story where I start deviating from historical logic and reasoning. Please continue to ignore my use of words and idioms that were definitely not invented yet in these times.
> 
> Also, pretty please ignore that the battles mentioned in the chapter, while real battles, actually took place several months (more often years) apart, not weeks (because that'd legitimately be ridiculous). Also, I'm aware that battles generally lasted for longer than a day. Just wanna make sure you guys don't think I'm stupid, lol. I'm also very loosey-goosey with military terms and locations, in case anything in that realm seemed weird or didn't make sense to you.
> 
> I'm still doing a ton of research because it's fun to discover little details that weren't even mentioned in the musical I'm learning so much! FUN FACT: The story of Mulligan leaving Hamilton's musket back at the warship where they went to steal cannons, and Hamilton running back to go get it, is a TRUE STORY!! Obviously not the part where Laurens followed him, but you know, gotta spice it up somehow. Or maybe it did happen that way, WHOS TO SAY/ ;)
> 
> TL;DR: I do hours of research to make sure I'm as historically accurate as possible, but at some point the storyline has to take priority, so please forgive me for any stupid logic I use throughout the story. Love you! <3


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